


We're On Our Way

by blanketed_in_stars



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alcohol, Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Bartender Dean, Homeless Castiel, Homophobia, M/M, Mechanic Dean, Past Child Abuse, Swearing, Teenage Sam
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-10
Updated: 2014-11-10
Packaged: 2018-02-24 22:12:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 28,015
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2598287
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/blanketed_in_stars/pseuds/blanketed_in_stars
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>If asked to state his three defining qualities, Dean Winchester would come up with hard-working, pessimistic, and busy. “Charitable” would not be on the list. So it’s completely beyond him as to why he’s chosen to spend so much time with the floundering Castiel, who has only twenty bucks and a trench coat to his name. Or why they’re growing closer and closer as the days pass. Or why, when everything they’ve built falls to pieces, Dean is so desperate to set things right again.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Part of the [2014 Dean/Castiel Big Bang challenge](http://deancasbigbang.livejournal.com/).
> 
> [Art Masterpost](http://almaasi.livejournal.com/26466.html)
> 
> A/N: I've been working on this for a little over a year, and I am so immensely pleased to finally be able to share it!  
> But it wouldn't be possible if not for my _amazing_ beta, [Mia](http://arwcn.tumblr.com/), who gave me a lot of encouragement and some hints that changed the way I thought about the story.  
>  And then there's my artist/beta [almaasi](http://almaasi.tumblr.com), who managed to work across a huge time difference to give an astounding amount of feedback, and created some truly lovely art as well.
> 
> I couldn't have done it without either of you guys. At all. Thank you so, so much!

The guy in the trench coat had been there for a week. On Monday, he’d wandered over to the bus stop and sat down on the bench. He was gone by the time Dean left. The next day, there he was again. Dozens of buses passed, but he never boarded.

On Friday, Dean locked up the garage and shoved his keys regretfully in his pocket. The Impala’s starter needed replacing and he hadn’t had time to deal with it during the day. Until he could get around to fixing her, he’d have to take the bus.

He sat down on the bench and several seconds passed before he realized that the guy in the trench coat was still there. Dean tried not to be too obvious as he peered at the stranger out of the corner of his eye. He couldn’t get a good view, so he turned his head, pretending to focus on a sign announcing a Biggerson’s Breakfast Special.

The trench coat was much dirtier up close than he had thought from across the street. And in the glances he’d chanced between dealing with customers and working on the cars, he hadn’t been able to see all the mud on the guy’s shoes. And his face—shit, the guy was looking right at him, and _damn_. Those were some blue eyes. It was a moment before he could remember how to blink.

Dean stared resolutely at the Biggerson’s sign as if he had never seen anything more fascinating in his life. The guy was still watching him, he could tell, but he sure as hell wasn’t going to look again. He switched to studying his feet, stretched out on the sidewalk in front of him, feeling like a kid caught with his hand in the cookie jar.

When the bus arrived, Dean was the only one of them to get on. He didn’t look back until he was safely behind the tinted windows, where he watched the stranger lean over and pick up the 20-dollar bill he had left behind.

***

The Roadhouse was always busy on Friday, and for a moment, Dean had trouble even opening the door. He squeezed through the sea of people until he reached the bar, where Jo handed him a damp cloth.

“When the bar’s clean, we need you to wash up the men’s bathroom.” She smiled and said something else, but a loud cheer from the crowd watching a football game drowned out her words. “—Sorry!”

Before he could ask her what she’d said, she was walking away. Dean slapped the cloth down and proceeded to mop. Someone had spilled an entire bowl of peanuts, which took several minutes to get rid of.

“Winchester!”

Dean barely heard the shout over the general din, but when he recognized the man seated in front of him, he grinned. “Rufus, hey!” They clasped hands across the bar; Rufus’s fingers were cold from his drink. “Haven’t seen you around much lately.”

“Bobby says the same thing about you.”

“I haven’t had the time. Gotta make sure Sam gets to school.”

Rufus sighed. In the loud bar, Dean couldn’t hear it; he only saw the movement of his shoulders. “You do too much for that boy. You tryin’ to be his daddy?”

“Someone has to be.” He regretted the words as soon as he’d said them. True or not, they left a sour taste in his mouth. “So, you, uh, you got any more hunting trips planned? I might be able to swing a weekend sometime.”

“Nope.” He shook his head. “I’m heading out to Omaha in a month. You can come if you want, but I don’t think that’s really your cup of tea.”

Dean laughed. “You got that right.” Normally, he was all for drinking until his lights went out, but Rufus’s company was a little depressing for his taste. Not that the man didn’t have good reason...

What was up with his head today? He couldn’t keep his thoughts out of dark corners. Maybe it was the Impala; he never felt right when he had to leave her behind. He took Rufus’s empty drink and moved along. The guy was paying more attention to the woman sitting next to him than to Dean now, anyways.

“Bathroom! Hurry!” Ellen was the one shouting at him now, and unlike Jo, her volume was threatening. He waved in acknowledgement and spun around on his heel toward the men’s room.

Someone had vomited. Dean didn’t think of himself as squeamish, but he still had to concentrate on breathing through his mouth while he mopped. It didn’t help.

As soon as he finished, he relieved Jo at the bar and got to work. He liked this part of the job best. He supposed most people would peg him as one who hated small talk, but it was actually the only kind of talking he didn’t mind. And chatting aimlessly with strangers who wanted to get drunk was something he could do all day.

Besides, he thought, it had some real perks. He winked at the blonde who’d just slid up to the counter. “What can I get you?”

“Long Island,” she said, with half a smile. “Make it extra strong.”

Dean grinned. “Anything for you, babe.” No reply. Damn. As he mixed the various drinks, he tapped his foot to the rhythm of the music blasting from the speakers. The woman, however, winced. “Not your thing?”

“Not really.” She stared moodily at her hands, picking at the wood of the bar, until he slid the drink into her line of sight. It was half gone in a single swallow.

Dean glanced around; nobody seemed to want his attention. So he gave it to the blonde. “I don’t think I’ve seen you here before.”

The corner of the woman’s mouth twitched up for a moment. “It’s my first time, so I’d be confused if you had.” She looked over her shoulder, then scanned the rest of the room. “How busy does a place like this usually get? It’s a little cramped, isn’t it?”

With a chuckle, Dean shrugged. “I guess it’s pretty small, but we usually only get a crowd this big on weekends. Nothing we can’t handle.”

“How much _can_ you handle?”

Was it going to be a good night for once? Dean opened his mouth to reply and saw the woman looking at him with a wide smile. He felt his own face shift in response—and then she called, “Gordon!”

Not smiling at him. Of course. Waiting for someone. Dean flushed and turned away as the woman moved off to get to her man through the crush of bodies. When she was gone, he cleared away her empty glass.

It made sense, Dean knew; still, he was disappointed. But he figured it was probably for the best. He couldn’t afford to meet anyone right now—not for a few years, with the way things looked. Two jobs and a brother meant no time for anyone else. Besides, he didn’t want to bring her back to his apartment, but he couldn’t leave Sam wondering where he’d gone. Even at 16, his brother flipped out if Dean left without warning. And as close as the two of them were, there were some things the kid didn’t need to know.

***

Dean shouldered the door shut behind him. “Sammy?”

“Hey,” Sam called out. He was curled up on the small couch with a textbook open in his lap, papers spread over the cushions and end table.

“How was school?”

“Fine.” Sam didn’t look up.

“You got home okay?”

He snorted. “Dean, it’s just the carpool. Not exactly a dangerous way to travel.”

Dean crossed the room to the kitchen. “Guess I’m just not used to it—you know me. Can’t rest easy without you riding shotgun.”

Sam finally raised his head from the book. “It’s the best way for you to keep your job at the Roadhouse, though. You said that yourself.”

“Right.” Some of Dean’s exhaustion must have shown on his face, because Sam was still watching him. “What?”

“You okay?”

“No, my baby’s still at the garage. I’m going crazy.” The kid wasn’t fooled. “I’m just tired, Sam.”

Sam opened his mouth, looking uncertain, but seemed to change his mind. “The soup’s in the fridge. I already ate.”

“Starving, huh?”

He smiled apologetically. “I had three tests. I guess they took a lot out of me.”

“Oh, right, I forgot. How many extra classes are you taking now?”

“Four.” No smile this time.

Dean shut the fridge and sat down on the edge of the couch, the soup left forgotten on the counter. “What’s eatin’ you?”

After a second’s hesitation, Sam closed his book. He sighed. “I don’t _need_ the extra classes, Dean. I would be on the right track without them, and… you know, they… well, they’re expensive.”

Dean sighed. “Sammy, how many times I gotta tell you? If it gets you out of this dump, it’s worth it.”

“It’s not a dump. It costs—”

“The cost isn’t the point. We have two bedrooms, a kitchen, and no shower. It’s a dump and you know it. _But_ ,” he said, over Sam’s protestations, “it’s close to the garage, the Roadhouse, _and_ school, and that’s why you’ve got to keep going with those classes. Once you’re a lawyer you’ll be able to buy any kind of place you want.”

“I guess.” It wasn’t an agreement, but Sam had opened his book again.

Dean returned to his soup and contemplated putting it on the stove. Chilled, soggy potatoes, or a higher bill? He decided against that and grabbed a spoon.

Later that night, flipping channels on the old TV—a gift from Bobby, and easily the most expensive thing in the apartment—something on a community news program caught Dean’s attention. A homeless woman had given away most of her things to the nearby shelter.

A few minutes into the story, Dean wondered why he’d cared enough to pause and listen. Then, suddenly, he remembered the trench coat. And the guy wearing it. And the twenty bucks he’d thrown away, as if half a week’s worth of groceries didn’t matter at all.

He was glad Sam had gone to bed, because he didn’t want to hang out with the kid when he’d been right. Money _was_ tight, that much was obvious. He had never been able to fool anyone about that. But why had he made things worse? He knew of dozens of things a twenty could buy, all of them essential.

Yet, as quickly as it had come, Dean’s frustration ebbed. He looked around at the room—one ratty sofa, a plastic bin in front with “coffee table” scrawled on one side, the television set on a spindly end table. There wasn’t even a wall between this and the half-gutted kitchen. Not a whole lot, he already knew. His bedroom was only a bit better. But there were walls and a roof, and the landlord was good about letting the rent go for a week, whereas the guy on the bus stop bench had a trench coat. Nothing else.

Dean flicked off the TV; the cracked clock said it was nearly midnight. In a sickeningly sentimental mood, he smiled. Sam had made the clock in his eighth grade shop class. He had to admit it: it wasn’t much, but it was home.

He put an extra bill in his pocket the next morning.

***

It was funny how one thing led to another. How one little act of charity meant that, soon, Dean was skipping both breakfast and lunch to give a stranger a little bit of money. The guy sat on the bench every day without fail for the next two weeks, never looking at Dean again. Dean didn’t look at him, either, except for the occasional glance from the window of the auto shop.

Until a Thursday when business was slow and Dean was feeling more reckless than usual. It was only a bit after noon, but he made his way across the street, taking his time. He still wasn’t sure it was a good idea.

The guy was definitely looking at him now. Dean had forgotten how incredibly blue his eyes were, especially in contrast with the grayness that seemed to permeate the rest of him.

He stopped on the edge of the sidewalk, hands deep in his pockets. “Hey.”

A slight pause. “Hello.”

Was it even possible for someone’s voice to be that deep? And would he stop _staring_? Dean shifted. “I, uh, saw you sitting here… all day.” Every day, every week. “You got any lunch?”

Complete silence.

“Because I know a good place nearby, if you don’t. My treat.”

The guy looked away. “I can’t.”

“Oh.” Dean paused, taken aback. “Is there somewhere you’ve gotta be?”

“No, I—” He pressed his lips together, as if he regretted the words. “I just can’t.”

Dean rolled his eyes. “Listen, man, I’ve got some extra dough,”—which was a lie—“and if I don’t spend it here I’ll just get wasted later,”—which was the truth. “Humor me.”

A small sigh, and then the guy stood. “I might drive you to drinking, regardless,” he warned.

“I’ll be careful, then.” Dean held out a hand. “Dean Winchester.”

“Castiel Novak.”

Weird name, but, somehow, it seemed fitting for such a weird guy. “C’mon, Castiel, it’s this way.”

Dean had never set foot inside the sandwich shop before; without money, eating out was kind of hard. He’d picked it out on his way in to work that morning purely for its close proximity.

The walk was less than five minutes, but since Castiel didn’t talk much, it felt like five hours. Inside the shop, things were marginally better—the menu was a welcome distraction—and Dean hid his reluctance as he told his guest to order whatever he wanted. Luckily, Castiel chose the cheapest thing there.

“Make that two,” he told the waitress, a surly, middle-aged woman with frizzy brown hair.

As she left, Castiel asked, “Do you own the garage?”

Dean shook his head. “It’s my dad’s.”

“It looks like you’re the only employee.”

“Well, I do all the work. Dad doesn’t show up much.”

“You’re bitter.” Castiel’s eyes were on him, intent and focused.

“Is it that obvious?” Dean scoffed. He rubbed his jaw. “Sorry. I don’t talk about my family a lot.” There was an uncertain pause. “You got any family?” Damn it. If he thought his relatives were dicks, what would a homeless guy have to say on the subject?

Confirming his fears, Castiel shrugged. “I haven’t seen them in a while. We… don’t see eye to eye.”

“Oh, god, do I know what you mean.” For some reason, he was feeling better than he had in days, talking to this stranger. Still, better safe than sorry. He searched for a change of subject, but came up short. What was safe to ask? “How long have you lived in Lawrence?”

Dean couldn’t believe that was the best he could think of, but Castiel seemed relieved nonetheless. “A while. I grew up here, but I spent some time in New York until quite recently—I just came back at the beginning of the summer.” Once again, silence fell. The words were unspoken, but clear enough: _Look where I am now_. Sitting on a bench every day. “What about you?”

Before Dean could reply, the waitress returned and set sandwiches down in front of each of them. “Thanks," he said, and smiled. She smiled in return and bustled off again.

For a few minutes, neither of them said a word as they concentrated on eating. Dean hadn’t really paid attention to what he’d ordered—it turned out to be a ham-and-cheese melt. Not half bad, actually. Castiel seemed to think it was heavenly, though, considering how he was digging in.

“Glad you didn’t turn me down?” Dean asked.

With a swallow, Castiel nodded. “Thank you,” he said, looking down and away.

“Don’t mention it.”

“I really was wondering before, though,” Castiel continued, “how long have you lived around here?”

“Twenty years, born and raised.” Dean saw an annoying look of surprise on Castiel’s face and lifted his chin against the inevitable condescension.

“You’re only twenty?”

Dean laughed out loud, surprised. It made a nice change to be questioned about his age; usually strangers just asked how he knew anything if he stayed in the same city his whole life. “Yeah, what did you think? Do I look old?”

“No, no.” Castiel shook his head vigorously, seeming almost embarrassed. “I just thought—I figured I was wrong. You don’t act like a twenty-year-old.”

“How would you know?”

Castiel blinked. “I’m twenty-two.”

“What?” Dean leaned forward. “You’re joking.”

“Thanks.” Luckily, Castiel didn’t seem offended. He gave a wry smile. “It’s the trench coat, isn’t it?”

“Makes you look like a tax accountant,” Dean agreed with a grin.

Castiel laughed, but the sound broke off abruptly as he coughed. His eyes traced the tiny mosaic on the edge of the table with studious intensity.

In the silence that stretched between them, Dean snuck a peek at the clock hanging over the door. One-fifteen. He cleared his throat. “Uh, listen, Castiel…” The mosaic was forgotten and those blue eyes locked on him again. “I gotta get back to work—it’s been great, though.”

“I understand.”

Dean nodded, pulled his wallet from his coat, and tried not to let Castiel see how empty it was. The two fives just covered the bill; he laid them on the table and together they left the diner.

When they arrived back at the bus stop across from the garage, Castiel turned to him. “Thank you for everything, Dean.” It was clear that he was talking about more than just the lunch—a parade of twenty-dollar bills danced through Dean’s brain.

“Hey, no problem.” Since when had he been so scrupulously polite? It _was_ a problem; he’d have to spend a month making up for this habit. Internally sighing, he headed off across the street. “See ya around, Castiel!”

A voice called after him, “Dean!”

On the median, he looked back. “Yeah?”

“Call me Cas.”


	2. Chapter 2

It became a routine, their Thursday lunches. He skipped breakfast and lunch every other day, knowing it was stupid and still, somehow, unable to stop himself. It wasn’t just generosity anymore—he genuinely liked Cas, enjoyed talking to him. Dean hadn’t expected a guy on the streets to have that sort of vocabulary or talk so much about books. To be honest, he hadn’t expected him to talk so much, period. He never shut up.

They didn’t always eat at the sandwich place; sometimes Dean brought a couple of breakfast bars along, the kind that came in packs of three dozen and were a hell of a lot cheaper than the ham-and-cheese. Once he brought nothing but a bag of chips, purchased from the vending machine a block away. It didn’t matter. The conversation filled him up more than the food.

On one particularly warm day, they took their sandwiches back to the bus stop and sat on the bench. Cas was telling a story about his sister, Anna, and a time she had repeatedly punched their older brother Gabriel in the face—accidentally, of course.

“And she got away with it,” Cas continued, shaking his head and smiling, “if you want to call it that. She was never punished, exactly, but Gabriel got back at her in the end.”

“What did he do?”

“It might be easier to ask what he _didn’t_ do—he put bouillon cubes in the shower head, so whenever she took a shower it came out as soup; he placed thin slices of meat under everything in her room… it went on for days.”

Dean laughed. “I used to do that stuff to Sam. Onc time I replaced his deodorant with cream cheese.”

“You get along well, though?”

“Oh, yeah, we’re thick as thieves.” He sighed. “We were each other’s best friends growing up—still are, I guess.”

Cas frowned. “Does he have anyone at school that he’s close to?”

He snorted. “Sammy, making friends? Yeah, right.” He shook his head. “I mean, he goes to parties once in a blue moon. The kid’s always got his head in a book. He wouldn’t know what to do if he had any time to hang out. You know, I worry about that sometimes.” He took Cas’s silence as encouragement. “All he does for fun is watch old reruns with me. That can’t be good for a kid.”

“I don’t know.” Cas smiled. “You’re not bad company.”

“Isn’t he supposed to, I don’t know, _do_ something, though? Get a girl? Make out in supply closets?”

“Mph.” Cas shrugged. “He will when he’s ready, I imagine.” He paused, mouth half-open, apparently searching for something inside his head. He seemed to find it and looked at the Biggerson’s sign while he spoke. “Do you have anyone, then?”

“Me? Nah. Way too busy.” Dean leaned farther back against the bench, sliding down as if he were in a boring class. “Don’t have the room, time, or attention to spare.” He didn’t really miss it all that much, anyway, regardless of his half-hearted attempts at the Roadhouse—had never thought twice about leaving that behind him, once his dad had taken off. He was Dean Winchester, big brother, mechanic, bartender. That was it.

Most of the time, they stayed away from the heavy stuff. It was kind of funny how they still found things to talk about, since Cas apparently lived under a rock and couldn’t decipher pop culture to save his life. But banter about siblings, good food, and books Dean vaguely remembered from school took up more than enough time.

The letter from John changed things.

Ellen handed it to him on a slow Wednesday night as he was washing glasses. “Dean,” she said, and something in her tone made him apprehensive. The look on her face didn’t help. “Sorry, hon,” she said as he took the envelope.

Just seeing the handwriting, hatefully familiar, made Dean’s chest get tight with anger. He slit the paper roughly and pulled out the folded sheet inside—cheap motel stationery, from somewhere near the country’s largest ball of twine, according to the print across the top.

_Dean_  
 _Not sure if you’re still in that apartment, so I hope you still work at the Roadhouse. That’s where I’ll be sending this. Sam still in school? Still trying to be a lawyer? Tell him I said to study hard. Don’t want him to drop out.  
The jobs here aren’t great. No respect at all—I got dropped last week. I’ll be joining you around Christmas, so make some room, all right? And I might drop in a little sooner if things don’t turn around up here. Save a piece of floor for your old man._

_John  
P.S. Country’s largest ball of twine—not that big._

Dean didn’t have to work hard to translate the letter. _Sam still in school?_ You failed yet? _Don’t want him to drop out._ Don’t want him to end up like you. _No respect._ I came to work drunk too many times. _Make some room, all right?_ Don’t think I won’t be there.

He folded the paper again, tucked it into his jacket. John would be on their doorstep sooner rather than later, and he would stay longer than anyone wanted him—into February, if past experience was anything to go by. Dean felt his face furrowing into a scowl.

With a noise of sympathetic disgust at his expression, Ellen touched him on the shoulder. “Your daddy’s more trouble than he’s worth,” she said. “What’s he up to now?”

Dean unlocked his jaw. “He’s gonna be home for the holidays.”

“That bastard’ll have a pretty blue Christmas around here. We don’t pretend to want him. Why’d he decide to come back?”

“I don’t know!” Dean barely stopped himself from snapping the stem of the glass he was still holding, and settled for slamming his fist into the bar. “No idea,” he said, more quietly, still doing his best to avoid breaking something.

The one bright spot, that he’d just finished repainting a scratch on the Impala’s hood, was ruined by the less-than-peaceful tirade inside Dean’s head on the road home. It was bad enough that John would be staying with them, but more than likely he’d take up money in addition to space, and start enough arguments to last them until the Fourth of July. Dean knew he was the cause of half the fighting. Hated it… couldn’t resist. Thinking about John made him angry, sure; actually talking to him was like dangling a lit match over a keg of gunpowder.

With an effort, Dean neutralized his expression as he walked up the steps to his apartment. It was only October: there were still three months until Christmas, plenty of time to figure things out. _Yeah, right._ In any case, there was no need to tell Sam just yet.

He was on the couch, as always, with all his papers spread in front of him. “Hi.”

Dean opened his mouth to respond, but his voice caught in his throat. Why lie? It wouldn’t change anything. “Hi. Listen, Sammy…” He put the papers on the floor and sat next to his brother. Then he got up, went to the window.

“What’s going on?”

It was the uncertainty in his voice that did it. The fear of more earth-shattering news, the kind Dean had brought home before. He couldn’t say what went through his head, exactly, but Dean knew he couldn’t ruin what they had—talking about John tonight would mean spending the next three months with a black cloud hanging over their heads. He grimaced, then smiled as he turned back to face the room. “Nothin’. I thought maybe we could see a movie tonight.”

A light of surprise, or possibly suspicion, flickered in Sam’s eyes, but all he said was, “How will we pay for the tickets?”

“Ah, you know me better than that,” Dean laughed. “Who needs tickets?”

Half an hour later, having taken a free newspaper from the trash for the location, they parked the Impala at a drive-in a few miles from the apartment. More specifically, they arrived at the playground across the street. Dean turned on the radio and started fiddling with the dials while Sam pulled blankets and pillows out of the trunk.

“Here it is,” Dean said, as a boy’s voice issued from the speakers: “ _…Incredible! One of the worst performances of my career and they never doubted it for a second._ ”

When Sam took his seat again, Dean looked at his brother. “I can’t believe I’ve never showed you _Ferris Bueller’s Day Off_ before. You’ve been missing out.”

“Thanks for fixing that, I guess.” Sam still looked confused about it all, but didn’t ask what had prompted the outing. He simply settled into his cushioned seat and watched.

Dean repressed a sigh of relief. Maybe they could just be normal for a few weeks before he had to break the news about John. Of course, when he did… _No, damn it_. With an effort, he shoved the letter to the back of his mind and focused on the movie.

If he was being honest with himself—something that rarely happened—Dean knew he hadn’t had this much fun in ages. It felt better than he’d thought possible to lose himself in stupid pranks, cutting school and driving around Chicago in a great car. The jokes seemed as good as the first time he’d heard them.

When the credits rolled, he turned to Sam. “Pretty good, eh?”

Sam nodded. “That was great,” he said, grinning.

“Awesome. We’ll do it again sometime.”

“Promise?”

“Sure.” If they ever had the time. If Dean ever lost his head like this again. He had to tell Sam, couldn’t keep secrets this big. It was stupid. But why spoil everything? He accelerated too quickly and the Impala screamed out of the parking lot.

***

Halloween fell on a Friday, to Sam’s apparent delight. He was sitting on the couch with a massive bag of chocolates and an enormous smile when Dean arrived home.

“Who’d you kill for that?” Dean asked when he saw his brother snacking while watching _The Shining_. He noted, pleased, that the homework was nowhere to be seen. The kid deserved a day off.

“Oh, hey!” Sam tossed a chocolate his way. “Found it in my locker. No clue who it’s from.”

“Huh.” The candy was delicious. Dean dropped onto the couch and stuck his hand into the bag, but Sam pulled it away.

“There’s a party at Don’s house tonight,” he said. “Can I go?”

“Yeah, why not?” Dean felt a small pain in his chest at the prospect of spending time alone with his thoughts, but quelled it. “Who’s Don?” he asked, as an afterthought.

Sam shrugged. “A kid from school. He’s pretty fun.”

Dean pointed at his brother. “Never take a joint from him, Sammy.”

“Why not?”

“Don’t ask.” He strained his mind, trying to remember anyone else Sam had mentioned from his classes. Aha. “Is Brady going?”

“I don’t know, maybe. I think so. Lots of people are.”

Dean smirked at the irritation in Sam’s voice. “It’s my job to give you the third degree, you know.”

“Yeah, yeah.” Sam smiled.

Taking advantage of the opportunity, Dean lunged at him and seized the chocolates.

When Sam left an hour later to wait in the parking lot for his ride, Dean shut off the TV and scowled. It wasn’t that he didn’t want Sam to go out, have fun, maybe kiss a girl for once in his life—he just felt like the room was dark and empty without anyone else in it. All night with only his shitty inner monologue to keep him company—ugh.

He’d been staring absentmindedly at the deep blue blanket on the couch while he grumbled, until he realized that the color reminded him of someone who was almost certainly lonelier than him. With a sudden burst of excitement, he grabbed his jacket and left the apartment.

Driving was a pain. All the stores had little baskets with candy for the kids, who kept running much too close to the street for Dean’s comfort. It was terrifying to see little pumpkins and ghosts constantly weaving in and out of his headlights.

He made it through the main streets without any casualties, however, only to wonder, as he neared the garage, where he would actually find Cas. Sure, he sat at the bus stop during the day, but where did he go at night?

The homeless shelter? It seemed like as good a place as any to start. Dean made a sharp left turn onto a side street.

Orange and purple lights hung in the windows of the surprisingly small shelter, and some kids were dancing to _The Monster Mash_ outside. Dean entered and encountered a different scene—several rows of bunk beds, some with blankets and some bare. There weren’t many people awake, and he walked as quietly as he could through the dimmed light to where he saw an elderly black woman at a table with a book, wearing a nametag identifying her as Olivia.

She looked up as he approached. “Can I help you?”

“Uh, yeah. Is there a guy here—blue eyes, scruffy…” Dean saw her blank look and added, “Wears a trench coat?”

“Oh, I know the one you mean.” She shook her head. “He doesn’t come in.”

“Why not?”

“Maybe he likes the fresh air. I don’t know, kid. That’s his business.”

“Well, do you know where I can find him?”

The woman shrugged. “Sometimes I see him in the park two blocks down.”

“Thanks.”

The park was lit only by a few streetlights, leaving the air hazy. It was a huge place—how was he supposed to find anyone in here? He picked a path and started walking, hoping he wouldn’t get too turned around, slightly worried that there were people in the park who were less friendly than Cas.

His fears were never realized; after only a minute or two he spotted the dim lights of a picnic area, and beneath them, a man in a tan jacket.

“Cas!” he called, as quietly as he could. Despite his efforts, Cas nearly fell off the table he was sitting on, spinning around as he regained his balance.

“Dammit, Dean.” Cas glared at him, eyes still wider than normal, when he came closer.

“Sorry. Didn’t mean to freak you out.”

“Well, you did.” Cas returned to his seat on the table, resting his feet on the bench and his elbows on his knees. “What are you doing here?”

Dean sat at a table a few feet away in the same position, facing him. “Trick-or-treating. What do you think? I was looking for you, dumbass.”

Cas raised his eyebrows. “Me? Why?”

Dean shrugged. “Thought you could use the company.” His voice echoed slightly off of the cement.

“Oh.” With a cough, Cas looked at his hands. “Thanks.”

“Sure.” Dean’s good spirits were rapidly dissipating in the gloom. Giving himself a mental shake, he grinned. “So. Happy Halloween.”

One corner of Cas’s mouth twitched into a crooked smile. “You seem… unusually excited about this holiday. I mean, it’s not exactly orthodox, is it?”

“Come on, what’s not to like? Candy, horror movies, skimpy costumes—it’s heaven, man.”

Cas rolled his eyes. “I do like horror movies.”

“What’s your favorite?”

After a slight hesitation, Cas looked up. “ _The Silence of the Lambs_. But I prefer ghost stories.”

“Well, what’s your favorite one of those?”

He was really smiling now. “I don’t know how you expect me to choose, but…” He sighed. “There is one that, according to an old friend, is true—should I tell it?”

“Yeah, let’s hear it.”

“All right.” Cas shifted on the table, looking more and more energetic. “So, my friend had a sister who lived with her husband…” He broke off as Dean laughed. “What?”

“Sorry, sorry. It’s just that you’re so excited about scaring other people.”

“Is it weird?”

“No, I mean—I didn’t figure you for an adrenaline junkie.”

“I see.” Cas was trying to keep a straight face, but his eyes crinkled. “I do have a story to tell, however; do you mind?”

“Sorry.”

“Sure you are… As I was saying, my friend’s sister lived with her husband. They had a nice house, but it was very old. And soon after they moved in, they noticed some strange things. They installed a new furnace, but it got stuck on the steps in the process, and they had to bang it around a lot. Then, in the middle of the night, they would hear the noises again of the furnace on the stairs. There were other little things—clean dishes would be back in the sink in the morning, old-fashioned music coming from the attic. At first they were concerned, but nothing ever seemed malevolent, and anyways, they didn’t believe in ghosts.

“Eventually—”

“Hey!” The shout came out of the darkness behind him without any warning. Dean experienced a minor heart attack, more due to Cas’s reaction than his own surprise. His smile had vanished in a split second to be replaced with wide-eyed horror, as if he were in the story he’d been about to tell.

But when Dean turned around, he didn’t see anything supernatural—just a cop, which was worse. The guy was striding towards them with a sense of purpose, saying as he did so, “This park closes at ten o’clock! If you try to spend the night here, you’ll end up spending it at the station. Get out of here!”

They didn’t need to be told twice. When they finally met up again on the sidewalk, out of breath, Dean was laughing, swearing, and rubbing the stitch in his side. “Oh, man,” he gasped. “Do you think that counts as running from the police?”

Cas wasn’t smiling. He wasn’t frowning, either. It seemed he’d surpassed that for a completely serious expression without any animation at all. “I don’t think so.”

“What’s wrong? Did you step in dog shit or something?”

“No.”

“Well, why so serious?”

Cas kicked at the ground, sending pebbles skittering across the sidewalk. “It doesn’t matter.”

Dean sighed. He grabbed Cas’s shoulder and spun him around so he could look him in the eyes. “Don’t tell me that if it’s not true. And I can tell it’s not,” he added, as Cas opened his mouth to protest. “What’s wrong?”

“They’ll watch for me now.” The words were all but dragged out of him; he wouldn’t meet Dean’s gaze. “I can’t stay in the park anymore.”

“Oh.” Dean let go of the trench coat, subdued. “I, uh, didn’t think of that.” After a moment, he spoke up again. “Why don’t you go to the shelter? No one would chase you out. And you’d have a bed.” As the words came out, he wondered if he was assuming too much.

Cas, however, looked thoughtful. Then, seeming to shake himself, he shook his head. “I can’t.”

“Why not?”

“I just can’t.”

“You always say that,” Dean huffed. “Don’t you care about what happens to you? It’s not like it’s always safe out here.”

“That’s—”

“And there would be food every day, not just Thursdays.”

“Dean, stop—”

“Besides, when it starts snowing, you’re gonna want—”

“ _Dean_!” Cas’s voice was raised and he looked livid. “I _can’t_ , I said. And I won’t.”

“Why not?” Dean demanded again. “If it’s pride, then that’s bullshit. Dying on the streets won’t make you dignified. Jail certainly won’t.”

“It’s not pride.”

“What, then? I can’t think of a single reason why you wouldn’t want to live under a roof.”

Cas just stared at him, jaw tense and eyes burning. Then, after a long pause, he looked up at the sky as if praying. “This is stupid.”

“Yeah.” Dean rolled his eyes. “Just try it, okay? You’ll be happy when winter comes and you can stay inside.”

“I don’t…” Cas sighed. He still looked angry, but when he met Dean’s gaze, his shoulders slumped, and he nodded in submission. “I suppose I owe it to you.”

Dean hadn’t meant to make him feel obligated, but if it worked… “Thanks, man. Makes me feel better, you know?”

“Not really.” His tone was uncertain. “Do you want me to go there now?”

“Hell, yes. I can drive you.” When Cas nodded, he led the way to the Impala, parked nearby. They got in, drove away… and sat in an uncomfortable silence. At least, it made Dean uncomfortable. Maybe Cas was still too upset to feel awkward. Dean chewed on his lower lip, wondering if he’d made a mistake in doing this. Would it make Cas hate him? He imagined if their positions were reversed, and suppressed a shudder—god, _he_ would hate him. Shit.

He had to say something. Had to make it right. But what was there to say? _You don’t have to go if you don’t want to._ That would be idiotic; wasn’t the whole point that Cas had somewhere to stay? _You okay?_ Of course he wasn’t.

“Sorry,” was his decision. He waited with baited breath, fearing an outburst.

Instead, the response that came from the passenger seat was soft and melancholy. “Don’t be. You’re right about all of it.”

Somehow, the rest of the ride was even worse.

***

Cas wasn’t on the bench that Monday. He didn’t show up all week. Dean worked, tried to ignore the absence. It wasn’t as if he’d really known the guy, anyways. Life was cheaper without him, that was for sure. And he had time to think about… well, John. And Sam’s crazy schedule. And John. And work. And John. Yet, more often than he liked to admit, his mind returned to the empty bus stop.

Another week passed. And then Cas was there again, as if he’d never left. Dean thought he was seeing things—and then he worried that he wasn’t. He made his way across the street, wondering if Cas had already broken his word.

Cas seemed to anticipate his question, and stood up as Dean reached him. “I’m still staying at the shelter, don’t worry,” he said quickly.

“That’s… good.” The words felt blocky. Why was he so tongue-tied? And had Cas’s eyes always been that blue?

“I wanted to say hello.” Cas, too, appeared uncertain. He smiled nervously. “And thank you.”

Feeling giddy, Dean smiled back, trying to reign in the grin that was threatening to split his face in two. “Don’t mention it.” He noticed belatedly that something was different. “Where’d the trench coat go?”

“It’s in the washing machine.”

“Oh. Awesome.” He felt himself go red. “I didn’t mean it was—I mean—”

Cas laughed. “I know, Dean.” He held his gaze for a moment before looking at the ground. “I really am grateful, you know. That night, it was just… I overreacted. And you have to understand, it’s not out of mistrust that I argued.”

“Hey.” Dean cut Cas off, seeing that he looked more and more agitated. “It’s all fine, man. Water under the bridge, you know?”

Cas nodded, swallowing. He ran his fingers through his hair, seeming at a loss for what to say.

Dean cleared his throat. He was still grinning, for some reason. “Listen, I gotta get back to work, but I’ll come back for lunch, ‘kay?” With a wave, he turned and crossed back to the other side of the street.

At a quarter to noon, the buzzer rang from the front of the shop. Dean rolled himself out from underneath a car, wiping his hands on his jeans, and entered the main room through the side door. “Can I help you?” he asked, then stopped short—it was Cas standing behind the counter.

Into the sudden silence, Cas coughed. “I brought lunch,” he offered, holding out a paper-wrapped package.

Now it was Dean’s turn to be unsure of himself, suddenly very conscious of the oil under his fingernails. But he shook it off and smiled. “Awesome.” When he unwrapped the package, he saw that it was a sandwich. Ham-and-cheese. He laughed. “Is this from the place we went—?”

“Yes.”

Dean looked up. There it was again, the agitation. Hesitation. “Something wrong?” With a sudden burst of intuition, he thought he understood. “Is it money? You didn’t steal this, did you?”

“No!” Cas clenched his jaw, clearly embarrassed. “No, of course not.” Dean had to admit, it wasn’t something he would have expected. Already he felt guilty for asking.

“Well, then, what is it?”

Cas blinked at him. “I’m not upset, Dean. Actually… this makes me very happy.”

“Buying me food?”

“Yes, I suppose, if you want to call it that.”

Laughing, Dean led the way outside, holding the door for Cas. He didn’t like to eat in the shop; it made his food taste like rubber. “So,” he said, leaning against the building. “How’s the shelter working out?”

“It’s very nice,” Cas said seriously.

After a moment, it seemed that was all Cas was going to say. Dean rolled his eyes. “Here,” he said, ripping the sandwich in two and handing half to Cas.

“It’s for you,” he protested.

“I want you to have some of it.”

“Oh.” With a smile, Cas took the food and bit into it, his eyes closing momentarily as he chewed. “Thank you.”

Dean made a noise in response, his mouth full. “Man,” he said when he swallowed, “this beats everything. I mean, I love a good burger any day of the week, but—this is something else.”

“It didn’t even cost four dollars.”

“So? That doesn’t mean anything. Look at me—I’m cheap, but I can be pretty great. So can a sandwich.”

Cas snickered. “And modest, too.”

“Shut up.”

***

Thanksgiving was nothing special for Dean. Sam had no school, but there were bills to pay, so he went to the garage as always. It didn’t bother him; family-oriented holidays tended to scare him a little.

Sam, bored stiff, came with him. He snoozed in the passenger seat but woke up when they arrived—and then they got to work. Dean had told him again and again, he could be the best lawyer in the world, but if he didn’t know his way around a car, he’d be in trouble someday. So he figured he’d better show him what was what.

At the usual time, Dean laid the tools aside.

“Lunch?” Sam asked enthusiastically. Dean nodded, and Sam went to get the sandwich he’d brought from the car—really just a square of cheese between two slices of bread.

“Hang on,” Dean said when he came back, about to wolf down the whole thing.

“What, did you poison it?”

Dean snorted. “I usually eat lunch with, uh, this guy I know.” He hadn’t stopped to think about it before, but it was no longer just on Thursdays that they sat together. It was still the only time there was food, but the conversations had, somehow, spread over the rest of his week. He smiled. “His name’s Cas.”

“Are you doing that today?”

“Well, yeah, I was gonna.”

“Okay,” he said, shrugging. “I just want to eat my sandwich.”

“C’mon, eat it outside.”

It was getting colder outside, he noticed as they crossed the street. “Hey, Cas,” he said when all three of them were on the sidewalk. “This is Sammy.”

Sam wrinkled his nose. “It’s Sam.”

Cas shook his hand. “It’s good to meet you,” he said. Dean rolled his eyes at the formal tone. “I hear you want to be a lawyer?”

Sam nodded. “Definitely.”

“I have some background in law, if you ever want tips,” he offered.

“Sure, thanks.” Sam smiled, then turned his attention to his sandwich.

Dean looked at Cas sideways. “You, a lawyer? I would have pegged you for a banker or something.”

Cas shook his head. “It was nothing big. I thought—well, _I_ didn’t, but—I was in pre-law at Stanford for a while. A couple years ago.”

“Huh.”

Into the short silence, Cas remarked, “It’s Thanksgiving today, isn’t it?”

“Yeah. Cheers.” Dean heard the bitterness in his own voice and cracked a smile, more for Sam’s benefit than Cas’s. “Could really use some turkey right about now, eh?”

“We had very large dinners at Thanksgiving when I was younger,” Cas said. Dean looked at him in surprise; he rarely talked about his family. “Veritable feasts.”

“What, cranberry jello and everything?”

“Of course, and pumpkin pie, too. Very all-American. What did you do?”

Dean hesitated—but Sam spoke. “I remember one year, when Dad was off doing who knows what, we spent the night eating fried chicken and cornflakes. Watching horror movies.”

“I didn’t know you remembered that.”

“Sure. I tried beer for the first time.”

“Ten years old and on your way to alcoholism.”

“Dad would’ve been proud if he ever found out.”

“Oh, right, I forgot—he came home drunk. Nothing special for him, I guess. Doubt he even remembered it was a holiday.” Cas, Dean noticed, looked taken aback and very awkward. Dammit. He hadn’t meant to wallow in the daddy issues. “But I mean, who needs him, right? We had a better time than we would’ve if he’d been there.”

“Yeah,” Sam agreed with some confusion, looking from Dean to Cas.

“It still seems… a bit lonely,” Cas said.

“Well, I guess it would, if _you_ usually spent Thanksgiving arguing and bringing up shit everyone forgot about. Probably some food fights, too.”

Cas laughed. “That does ring a few bells.”

“Besides, it’s just the three of us, and we don’t have any food at all—” Sam had finished his sandwich long ago “—but we’re doing okay, aren’t we?”

“Slightly better than okay, I think.” Cas smiled at him, blue eyes bright. “It beats most other years by a mile.”


	3. Chapter 3

Exactly three weeks before Christmas, Dean entered the apartment at the usual late hour, still stomping snow from his boots, and to his surprise, he found Sam waiting for him. “What’d I do?”

Sam didn’t crack a smile. “One of my teachers said the homeless shelter was closing today.”

“What? Do you know if it’s true?”

“Yeah, I checked the news as soon as I got home, and the shelter closed at noon. Lack of funding or something.”

“Oh.” Something clicked in his brain. “Shit,” he breathed as Sam’s meaning hit him.

“It’s below zero without wind chill.”

“Yeah, Sam, I know.” It had been snowing practically nonstop for the past twenty-four hours, too; as if that weren’t enough, temperatures weren’t supposed to rise for days. And it was already past nine o’clock—getting colder as they spoke.

Sam shifted from foot to foot. “We have to do something, don’t we?”

“What _can_ we do? It’s not like he can stay with us!”

“Wait,” Sam said, “why not?”

He fumbled behind him for the doorknob as the idea took hold. “He can,” he decided.

But now Sam looked doubtful. “Where will he sleep?”

“On the couch,” Dean answered immediately. “We can think it through later, okay? He’s out there freezing his ass off or getting mugged or something. And it won’t be for long, anyways. Just ‘til he finds somewhere else.” He hesitated. “Can you get a pillow or something for him?” When Sam nodded, Dean hurried back out the door.

In the five minutes he’d been gone, a layer of snow an inch thick had already settled on the Impala. The wipers cleared the windshield, but it just kept coming as he drove. He could hardly see; how was he supposed to find one not-very-big guy who was probably trying to hide from the weather?

At the very least, he knew where to start. Ice coated the roads, making what had already been difficult into something that was all but impossible, but he made it to the shelter. A large sign reading CLOSED in red letters hung across the door, and the nearby parking lot was empty. The door was locked when he tried to open it. No one was there that Dean could see.

He half-walked, half-slid back to the car and then drove to the garage, where he found less than nothing. Growing more worried by the second, he got out of the car. No gloves, but a worn coat—better than Cas’s trenchcoat, for sure. The street was empty, so he didn’t worry about traffic as he shuffled over to the bus stop bench—empty, of course. His fingers were numb. He plowed on through the deepening drifts, peering into the dark corners and alleys.

After several minutes, he wondered if Cas was somewhere else entirely. There was a whole city—he could be anywhere. Was he inside, warm, while Dean was probably developing severe frostbite? It wasn’t unlikely, he thought, and wouldn’t it just be perfect—and then he came around a corner and saw him, huddled against a wall, curling in on himself for protection from the storm.

“Cas!” The wind wasn’t loud, so Cas’s head snapped around when he spoke. His coat was soaked through and his lips had a pale blue tinge. “Jesus Christ, man.” Dean reached out, stumbled, and almost fell, but caught himself at the last moment. The slip had brought them much closer together, so he could see the snowflakes in Cas’s hair as he helped him to his feet. Snow fell out of the folds of the trench coat in wet clumps.

“Dean?” Cas’s voice was weak in his ear, but he clung to him with surprising strength.

“That’s me,” he said, breathing hard. Cas didn’t seem to be moving his feet very much; Dean had to practically drag him through the snow back to the Impala.

He’d left the engine running, knowing the risk of blocking the exhaust pipe, but he was glad when they were both in the car. Out of the storm, it was shocking just how cold it was clear Cas was—not unexpected, but frightening. He shivered in the passenger seat, shuddering so violently that Dean could hear his teeth clacking together.

Dean drove carefully forward, pulling into the road. “Talk to me,” he ordered. Were you supposed to make a person talk if they were cold like this? And what was _this_ , anyways? Was he just very frozen, or was it hypothermia? What if he needed a hospital? How much would that cost? His thoughts scattered in different directions, all of them somewhat panicky. “Dude,” he pressed, when no answer came. Looking over, he saw Cas holding his hands over the heating vents. His fingers were blue.

He concentrated on the road—the last thing they needed was to get into an accident now. Luckily, nobody else seemed to be driving, so he reached the apartment building without a hitch.

Helping Cas out of the Impala, however, wasn’t so easy. Along the way he’d warmed up some, but could hardly stand. Dean staggered trying to keep them both upright—and then he did fall, something sliding under his foot. He thought it was ice but realized as the silver thing spun away across the frozen parking lot, shining in the moonlight, that it was a flask. And he recognized it.

“Fuck.” His voice was a growl. Why _now_? Of all the days to come barreling into their lives again, why did it have to be today?

He pulled Cas to a semi-vertical position and somehow managed to get him inside. They were both soaked now, leaving a trail of melting snow to the elevator. The doors slid shut and Dean looked at Cas—really looked, trying to gauge the severity of the situation. From what he could see, things weren’t great. Leaning against the wall, Cas sagged considerably but didn’t fall; it was his temperature that had Dean worried. His breath was hardly warm and it almost hurt to touch him, although Dean was so cold himself that there wasn’t that much of a difference. The doors opened and he heaved Cas back onto his shoulders.

At the door to the apartment, Dean didn’t hesitate. It was quiet inside, but he saw Sam immediately, sitting on the edge of the couch with an anxious expression. He jumped up when he saw the two of them and hurried over, helping to support Cas from the other side, although the tiny apartment made things difficult. It was at that moment that John appeared from out of the bathroom, blocking the hall.

“What—?”

“Move.” Dean didn’t wait for compliance, forcing him to retreat back into the room. He and Sam squeezed past, into Dean’s bedroom, and managed to lay Cas on the bed, being as gentle as they could.

“Take his coat off.” It was John who gave the command, and Dean followed it automatically. The ratty clothes underneath were just as wet. “Those too,” John ordered. “And dry his hair. Get him under the blankets.” He tossed towels from the bathroom in their direction before leaving the room.

“What’s he doing here?” Sam asked as they worked. It was hard to undress someone who was completely limp—although Cas’s eyes were half-open, he didn’t move at all. “He won’t explain it to me.”

Dean rubbed Cas’s soaked hair as vigorously as he could while still being gentle. “He sent a letter, said he was coming.”

“When?”

“It didn’t say when.”

“No, when did you get the letter?”

Even with his body still chilled from the storm, Dean felt himself go hot with shame. “A few months ago.” Worse than yelling, Sam fell silent. “I was going to say something,” Dean said, knowing it was weak. Still nothing.

When Cas was dry and cocooned in blankets, Sam walked out. Closer to John, away from Dean—he sank into the chair by the bed, sitting on top of yesterday’s jeans, rubbing his face with both hands. A little moan escaped him; he couldn’t help it. Cas was sick, John was here, Sam was pissed… he mentally braced himself for the next bad thing.

John ambled in after a few minutes and leaned against the wall next to the door, saying nothing, just looking at the room and Cas. He held a half-empty bottle of beer in one hand.

“What?” Dean asked sullenly when it seemed he had no plans to move.

“Who is he?”

Dean shrugged. “A guy. His name’s Cas.”

“Why’d he stay out in the storm?”

“The homeless shelter closed.” He didn’t want to say it, didn’t want to give his father any kind of weapon, but years of obedience took over in spite of it all.

“He’s a bum?”

“He’s my friend.” Dean couldn’t look at John, so he stared at Cas instead. The blue was gone from his skin but he was still too pale, and his breathing was shallow.

There was a long pause, during which Dean thought of a thousand horrible things to say, before John sighed and announced, “He’ll be all right. Just keep him as warm as you can.”

Dean nodded, and then he was alone. He figured it wouldn’t be hard to keep Cas warm—the room was stifling; one of the perks of the building was that the HVAC system was never faulty. But he searched for Cas’s shivering hand beneath the blankets and found it freezing.

Maybe he should stay conscious. Dean thought he’d read something about that once, how you could damage your brain if you conked out in the process of becoming an icicle. He wasn’t quite asleep yet, so Dean started talking. Nothing important, just a running stream of words that hopefully kept Cas awake. There was never any response.

When Dean’s watch showed it was past eleven, he peeked down the hall to make sure John was asleep. Sure enough, he was splayed out on the couch, still holding the now-empty bottle, dead to the world. Good. Even with all of his marine survivalist shit, he’d blow up if he caught Dean doing what he was about to do.

As he stripped to his underwear, he wondered where he’d gotten this idea, anyways. One of Sam’s nature shows, probably. And as awkward as it might be, he knew enough to share body heat. Besides, despite his best efforts, the guy had slipped into unconsciousness. He sure as hell didn’t _seem_ to notice as Dean slid carefully into the bed next to him.

He had to grit his teeth when he pressed against Cas’s bare skin. As warm as the room was, he was a human icicle. It was like wading into a lake in March. But the shock passed and he relaxed his muscles, giving up what warmth he could.

And then, so slowly that it was surely a reflex, Cas curved into him, turning slightly and bowing his head so that it rested just below Dean’s chin. Dean froze for a moment before putting his arms around Cas’s body.

Was he imagining it, or was his breathing steadier already? Dean pulled away slightly to watch him, trying to measure the breaths, and instead found himself examining other details—the slant of his nose, the dark stubble on his jaw, the rise of his lips…

He blinked himself awake, a sudden movement that caused Cas to shift in response. Dean stiffened in disconcerted surprise before he remembered everything that had happened. He realized that, in however long he’d been asleep, Cas had closed the distance between them again, now with his arms between their chests and his legs curled up, almost into a ball. He was no longer as cold as before, but not exactly warm, either. Dean pulled him closer and put his chin on top of Cas’s head, where it fit more comfortably than he had expected.

His watch, illuminated by the faint moonlight from the curtainless window, said that it wasn’t yet two in the morning. So he closed his eyes and let sleep take him again.

The next morning dawned clear, and Dean woke with the sun. It was a Thursday, and his first thought was of the ritual lunch, the high point in every week. Then he opened his eyes and saw Cas, still nestled in the curve of his body, no longer cold at all. It was silent in the apartment, and as the golden sunlight touched the bed, it struck Dean that Cas was very beautiful.

The thought was so quick that he could almost pretend it hadn’t happened; still, it was enough to get him up and moving. He pulled on the usual jeans and t-shirt, took a look at Cas, shook his head, and left the room.

He’d almost forgotten about John, but a thundercloud coalesced over his head when he saw him, still passed out on the couch. Mumbling darkly to himself, he looked in the cupboards and found six empty beer bottles and stale cereal. No milk in the fridge meant that he ate a bowl dry, crunching loudly. He turned the TV on and muted it, watching the news with subtitles, and was rewarded for his curiosity.

When Sam came out of his bedroom, fully dressed with his backpack slung over one shoulder, Dean shook his head at him. “School’s cancelled,” he said softly, aware of the time bomb snoozing between them. “It’s too cold for the kids who have to walk.”

“Oh.” After packing more venom into that one syllable than should have been possible, he turned around and vanished again.

Dean cursed and turned off the TV, getting up to knock on his brother’s door. “Let me in,” he whispered, being as loud as he could while staying quiet. The door opened slightly, revealing the messy room strewn with books, and in the middle of it all, Sam, glaring at him. Dean shut the door and sighed. “Look,” he began.

“Look at what?” Sam cut him off. “All I can see is Dad in the living room. Except he takes up the whole apartment, and he’s a dick, and I can’t believe you even let him come.”

“You know I can’t tell him what to do.”

Sam scoffed. “Well, I can, so you could have told me he was coming! And then I would have made him leave.” He lowered his voice; it had risen in his anger. “Can’t _you_ make him leave? Just tell him to go?”

“No.” He spoke over Sam as he opened his mouth to protest. “No, I can’t, he wouldn’t listen. And he won’t listen to you, so don’t even try it. You’ll just make him mad.”

“What if I don’t care?”

“Then you’d better damn well start, because he’ll take away the garage!” Dean sucked in a breath. “And that’ll be it, we’ll be done,” he said. “No law school. No apartment.”

“What about your job at the Roadhouse?”

“It’s not enough.”

Sam was pacing by that point, his jaw working. “I just can’t believe you said he could come. And stop telling me you can’t boss him around, or whatever, because that’s crap! You’re just afraid of him!”

“I’m not,” Dean said, feeling his rage roiling in his chest.

It seemed Sam could see it on his face, because he dropped his gaze. “You could hit him, though. Just punch him or something. Then push him into the hallway and lock him out.”

Dean could tell he wasn’t serious about that, but he argued back anyway. “He’d come up with a knife or a gun and put me in the ER.” In the beat of silence that followed, he knew they were both hearing the word he’d left out: _again_. He sighed. “And maybe things will be better this time. He was okay last night.” He didn’t really believe it.

“Yeah, once you showed up,” Sam said mulishly. “Before that, he was going on about how this apartment is like one giant toilet bowl, and how you’re clearly…” He bit his lip and cleared his throat. “How everything is hell, basically.”

“And it’s all my fault, he said that too, didn’t he?”

“Yeah.” Sam sat on his bed. “Now I have to spend a day with him.”

“Nah.” Dean shook his head. “He’ll be sleeping off those beers for hours.” He pushed off of the wall he’d been leaning on. “And I’m gonna stay home and supervise this party we’re having, so I might as well do something while I’m here.” He opened the door, but paused, looking around. “Clean your room, Sammy.”

After determining that John would sleep through an unmuted newscast, Dean set himself the task of deep-cleaning the kitchen. He cleared out old boxes, most of them empty, and scrubbed the counters until they shone. The fridge was empty except for a few root beers, a half-empty sticky jar of grape jelly, and a bag of coffee grounds. Dean regarded it all with a sinking feeling, knowing that he should go shopping but aware that they didn’t have the money or the time. Then he shut the fridge and moved on to the bathroom, scrubbing the toilet and the floor tiles, cleaning the sink. It was then that he discovered John would also sleep through the clang of a falling toilet tank cover and several loud, angrily-yelled epithets. Sam poked his head in to ask what on earth he was doing, to which he replied, “I live in this dump, so I can clean it if I want to.”

But his frenzy of activity was halted shortly after noon, when a rustling made him lift his head from the cabinet under the bathroom sink, where he’d been checking for leaky pipes. He looked into the living room, expecting to see John sitting up, but his luck held out. Turning his head, he saw that the door to his bedroom was ajar.

“Cas?” he called out, drying his hands on a towel. “You awake?” He thought he heard something faint in reply. Moving closer, he knocked softly on the door, trying not to open it further. “Hey.”

“Dean?” It was a great sound, he thought. At least the guy wasn’t dead. Even as he inhaled to respond, Cas shuffled into view, wrapped in one of the blankets from the bed. “What is—what is happening?” he asked, squinting.

“How much do you remember?” Dean edged closer, forcing Cas to open the door wider so he could take his shoulder and guide him back to the bed, where they both sat down on the edge of the mattress.

Cas didn’t speak until they were sitting. “The… the shelter closed,” he said. “They locked us out, the police did, they said we’d have to find somewhere else. There was a reason, but I don’t…” He shook his head. “And I was cold, so I found somewhere out of the wind—kind of—and then…”

“Yeah?” Dean asked after thirty seconds had passed.

“I’m not sure. I remember you were there, and we went to your car, but everything after that is fuzzy, like being underwater.”

“Well, I can fill you in,” Dean offered. At a nod, he said, “I brought you back here—my apartment, if you hadn’t figured that out. That was late last night. Got you warmed up, and you slept until now.” He cracked a smile. “It’s no wonder you don’t remember much, really.” And he had to admit, he was relieved. The previous night had been dreamlike, unreal. He didn’t want to confront it—it was easier this way.

Cas nodded. “Where are my clothes?”

“Oh. Um, drying. In the bathroom.” Dean scratched his nose with his thumbnail, wondering what to do next. “You want something of mine to wear?” he asked after a moment’s hesitation.

“Please. But thank you for the blanket and the bed.”

“Sure thing.” He opened the lopsided dresser and grabbed the first things he saw: sweatpants, thankfully without holes, and his old Led Zeppelin tee. Before handing them to Cas, he added socks to the pile for good measure.

“Thank you,” Cas said again. He smiled as Dean retreated to the hallway.

When he emerged from the bedroom, Dean had gone back to work on the pipes, but he straightened up when he heard the door open and soft footsteps approach. Then he had to stop and stare, because for some reason the sight of Cas in that getup—his clothes, and still clutching the blanket around his shoulders—was both funny and captivating. He tried not to be too ridiculous, though, simply saying, “I can’t get used to you without a trench coat.”

“It does feel strange,” Cas agreed.

Dean noticed that he was holding onto the door frame with one hand. He stood and went into the kitchen, busying himself with making a pot of coffee while Cas shut himself in the bathroom for a few moments. He only drank the stuff on occasion, but it seemed like a better idea for Cas than the root beer.

Cas came out of the bathroom, looking around. “Is that your father?” The question was quiet, but Dean could hear the judgment in it all the same.

“Unfortunately, yes,” he said. “He showed up last night. I forgot to tell you.”

He heard Cas’s tone change, becoming worried. “I hope I didn’t cause trouble,” he said. “I mean, of course I _did_ , but I hope your father—that he didn’t get angry.”

He felt his shoulders tense. “Why, because I can’t handle him when he’s angry?” Never mind that he’d said as much to Sam just a few hours before.

But Cas said, “No, because _I_ probably couldn’t,” and Dean had to hand it to him—the guy knew how to diffuse a bomb. “Especially if he’s angry at me.”

“Well, that’s impossible. No one gets angry at you.”

Cas snorted in disagreement, but didn’t respond.

“Are you still cold?” Dean asked as the coffee brewed. “You’re walking and talking, but how’s it going, really?”

“You mean, am I going to collapse again?” Cas smiled. “I do remember some things, Dean. And no, I’m not going to.” He pulled the blanket tighter. “I am a little cold, though.”

“Then I’ve got you covered.” Dean tapped the machine.

At precisely that moment, John gave a start, rolled off the couch, and scrambled to his feet, swaying. He mumbled something that sounded like an order.

“What?” Dean asked. Hopefully it was nothing too rude.

“I said,” John groaned, “turn off whatever the hell is making that noise.”

There was silence in the kitchen as Cas and Dean looked at each other, listening. The only noises to be heard were the quiet drip of the coffee pot and the distant sound of the snowplow outside.

“Which noise, Dad?”

John gave an irritated grunt. “The beeping one.”

“That’s a snowplow; I can’t turn it off.”

“Shut up.” John staggered to the window and peered blearily through it. “Shut up!” he yelled, his voice rasping.

Dean peeked at Cas, slightly afraid to see what he thought of his father, but he didn’t seem to be paying attention anymore. Instead he was focusing on the pot behind Dean, where the coffee was finished. “Oh, yeah.” Dean hurried to pour the hot liquid into two chipped mugs, handing one to Cas. “That should warm you up.” He carried the other over to John, who took it and downed half in one swallow.

“Dean?” Cas asked softly. “Could—could I talk to you alone?”

Dean nodded and swept his arm towards the bedroom, letting Cas go first, while he followed in uncertainty.

Cas sat in the chair, on the jeans. He looked pale, which made Dean think he didn’t feel as well as he pretended to. “I wanted to thank you again,” he said, “for bringing me here. For thinking of me at all, I guess. And then looking for me. That was… very kind.”

Dean blushed, for some reason. “Dude, it was a no-brainer. You don’t leave someone to freeze to death in a blizzard.” Then he worried he’d been too dismissive. “But, uh, you’re welcome.”

Cas opened his mouth, shut it, and sighed.

“You didn’t just bring me in here to thank me, right?”

“Right.” He sounded unwilling to admit it. With another sigh, the words tumbled out in a rush. “I don’t think I should stay here.” He held up a hand to hold off Dean’s response. “You, well, I don’t mean to offend, but you and Sam clearly have very little, and it doesn’t seem right to take more than I already have.”

“That’s bull—”

“And your father’s here now. You’ll have your hands full.” Cas finished and looked down, embarrassed. “Sorry.”

“Why? I know he’s a dick. And if it’s him you’re worried about, then you can stop, because he won’t be here long.” Dean wasn’t sure why he’d said that—it wasn’t as if he’d ever made much of an effort to kick his old man out before. Maybe he was becoming a compulsive liar; it would fit with his recent downhill slide.

“It’s not really because of him.” Cas shook his head. “I would feel guilty staying here.”

Dean laughed once, more out of surprise than anything, before catching himself. “I’m sorry, man,” he said, “but you’ve gotta see how messed up that is. I mean, you’d have more here than out there.”

“But you and Sam—”

“—think you’re great. It was Sam’s idea to bring you here, you know.” Cas was still shaking his head, so Dean plowed on. “You can’t go back out there right now, at least,” he said firmly. “You can’t walk far and you don’t have any food or—”

“Neither do you.”

“Fair point, but we have more than you. Listen, just stay until you have somewhere else to go, okay? I don’t want you on the streets in the winter.”

Cas made a frustrated noise and ground his free hand into his thigh, but the movement jostled his coffee and it spilled on his leg. The heat must have been painful, because he jerked and dropped the mug.

Dean lunged forward and caught it, setting it upright on the floor. He looked up, laughing a little, and was shocked into silence by his closeness to Cas at that moment. Less than a foot between their faces, both of them fully conscious—and those blue eyes fixed on him, wide open. There were little flecks of black around the edges; he’d never noticed that before.

Realizing that he was a bit short of breath, he looked away and picked up the mug, which was dripping. There was a circular stain on the wood where it had been.

“I’m sorry,” Cas rushed. “I’ll clean that up—”

“Calm down,” Dean said, standing. He held a hand under the mug to catch the drops. “I’m not exactly showing off my place to anyone; I don’t care. Heck, it gives it some character.” He smiled, trying to erase the worried look from Cas’s face.

It worked. His expression cleared and he smiled back hesitantly. “All right,” Cas said. “I guess I could stay.”


	4. Chapter 4

Despite any efforts at optimism, things went downhill quickly. Dean hadn’t exactly forgotten how it was to live with John, but he hadn’t counted on it being so immediate and real. It was easy to contemplate the idea when he was miles away, but with his father back in the apartment, contemplation wasn’t an option—it was do or die.

Sam was still pissed, Dean could tell. And who could blame him? When they were younger, it had been Sam who’d taken the brunt of John’s disappointment. Never wanting to be a mechanic, not interested in the military, but fired up about _law_ , of all things… Dean could hear him saying it again, slurred from drunkenness: _He’s the crooked kind._ As if John were on some sort of righteous path.

Well, he’d certainly thought he was. He had almost convinced Dean, too. And that was the worst part of it, that he could physically _feel_ his father creeping back into his actions and speech. Sam surely could, too, from the way he was behaving, quieter and smaller, trying to take up as little space as possible. With Dean it was the opposite—he stood up straighter, eliminated unnecessary movements, spoke in a monotone half the time. Even his thoughts felt battered, beaten into line.

Except there were some thoughts that refused to straighten out. He tried not to care or pay attention, but that was the problem—he couldn’t _stop_ paying attention. It was everything—little things, like his scowl in the early morning or the careless way his hands rested on the tabletops, and big things, like how he didn’t seem to mind taking a cot since John clearly wouldn’t give up the couch, or offering to do the paperwork from the garage while he was at the apartment during the day. No matter what he did, Cas wouldn’t get out of his head.

Thankfully, the holiday season was coming on fast, so there were plenty of safer distractions. Like how the hell he was going to find the money to have a Christmas with not just one but two extra people. But it became something of a game, as it did every year, trying to pinch the pennies he could and make the most out of those he couldn’t.

***

About a week before Christmas, John took off in the Impala without a backward glance, leaving no mention of where he was going or when he’d be back. Sam and Cas informed Dean of this when he got home from the Roadhouse, both of them grinning widely. And while he was considerably worried about his car, Dean couldn’t stop smiling, either.

After a dinner of stale spaghetti, butter, and a special ingredient—salt—they sat down to watch _Scrooged_. Dean had to argue the whole night to win that one. How could anyone even attempt to choose _The Grinch Who Stole Christmas_ over the gem that was Bill Murray?

Halfway through the movie, however, Cas poked him and looked pointedly at Sam, who had fallen asleep and appeared perilously close to falling off the couch. Dean nudged him awake with his foot and smiled at the scowl he received. “You’re busted,” Dean told him. “Either wake up or stop hogging the cushions.”

Sam groaned, but slid off and lumbered into his room. Cas, who had been leaning against the front of the couch, took his place. Right next to Dean. He was very, very close, and his body heat didn’t allow Dean to forget it.

He made a solid effort to concentrate on the movie. But the ghost of Christmas present, usually hilarious, didn’t seem as exciting tonight, and it was very distracting to know that mere inches away was the source of so much confusion in his mind.

With an internal sigh, he turned his head, pretending to look at the clock, only to find that Cas was looking at him, too, and not pretending otherwise at all. “Cas?” he asked, his voice a rasp. “What—?” But the words were stopped when Cas’s lips met his.

He froze, too surprised to resist, and in that instant Cas brushed his hand across Dean’s cheek to rest on the back of his neck, pulling him closer. Closer to the warmth and the softness of his mouth, finally on his, _finally_ —

Quickly he wrestled his mind into line and jerked back, staring. Cas opened his eyes, and in them Dean saw a mixture of hurt, embarrassment, and something kinder than anything he’d ever encountered, and he had to look away.

“I’m—oh, god, I’m sorry,” Cas mumbled, pulling away and turning back to face the television. He ran his fingers through his hair and rubbed the other hand over his eyes. “I’m sorry,” he repeated, “I just… I don’t know, I thought—it was stupid, I thought you—”

“I do,” Dean blurted before he could think. “I am. I mean, kind of. Um.” He cleared his throat and got up, grabbing the last beer from the fridge. Then, because there was nowhere else to sit in the tiny room, he returned to his place on the couch. He and Cas were both sitting as close to the edges as they could, as far away from each other as possible. It hurt, but he pretended it was just the burn of the alcohol.

“Kind of?” He couldn’t read any emotion in that carefully guarded voice.

“Yeah.” He took another swig. “There were a couple times, in high school… with a guy or two. And girls, but guys too. My dad caught me with the last one. I—uh, that was the end of it.”

Cas was silent for several seconds. “I’m sorry,” he said at last.

“Yeah, well. That’s why I can’t.” And what else could he say? No one else knew unless they’d guessed, and he’d tried his damnedest to prevent that. He hadn’t exactly prepared for this conversation—hadn’t ever thought he’d have a reason to. He got up and stalked into his bedroom, shutting the door and leaning against it. He knocked his head on the wood, closing his eyes. “Jesus Christ,” he whispered to himself, feeling his heart hammering in his chest. He pushed off the door and slammed the bottle down onto the dresser, bracing his hands on either side of it, screwing up his face. A jumble of curses poured out of him, half inaudible, and he wheeled around, hurrying back to the living room.

Cas was still sitting where he had been, still regarding the movie, still playing, with a blank look, but he jumped up when the bedroom door opened, and when Dean crossed the room to stand just a few inches away, he looked bewildered. Without stopping to consider anything, Dean placed a hand on each of Cas’s shoulders and bent down slightly to press their lips together.

Once he gave himself permission, he couldn’t hold back. And neither, it seemed, could Cas, whose hands lifted to his jaw, and who gasped against his mouth. It was everything he had never let himself imagine.

It was Cas who deepened the kiss, catching Dean’s lip between his teeth, slanting his jaw so that they slotted together more fully. Inertia pulled them down to the couch, Dean straddling Cas, with any semblance of decency dissolving; his plaid overshirt dropped to the floor and Dean was left in a thin tank. Fingers tripped across the skin at his hips, waking fire where they touched. He knotted his fingers in Cas’s hair and lay across him, and then their bodies were flush, a mess of heat as Cas explored Dean’s chest beneath his shirt and Dean slipped his tongue into Cas’s mouth.

Cas responded with enthusiasm, his hips bucking up into Dean’s, upsetting their fragile balance and carrying them off the couch. They tumbled to the floor, Dean landing underneath Cas, his head smacking back into the floor, and he saw stars.

“Fuck,” he whispered, laughing. Their faces had smashed together when they fell.

“Wasn’t that the plan?” Cas teased, trailing kisses on his throat. His lips curved into a smile against the skin there.

Dean shook his head. “Sam would hear.” The words tore out of him, his breathing ragged.

“Pity.” Cas shook his head. He leaned in closer, if that were possible, so his mouth was next to Dean’s ear. “No practice since high school, Dean Winchester? I don’t believe you.”

“That good, huh?” Now he snaked his hands under Cas’s shirt, feeling the warmth of him, the way his muscles slid beneath his skin. “Not too rusty?”

“Well,” Cas breathed, “that depends.”

“On what?”

“On how harshly I’m judging you.” He put his lips back on Dean’s, who could tell by his breath that he was struggling to keep talking. “Surely this isn’t all you’ve got.”

“Is that a challenge?” Dean murmured against him. He slid his hands down Cas’s back lazily, taking his time. When he reached the curve of his ass, he trailed his fingers around to the front, urged on by the moans Cas made into his mouth. The belt buckle was tricky, but he undid it as easily as he undid Cas, who whimpered as Dean slid a thumb inside the waistband of his briefs.

But then Cas shook his head, breaking their lips apart. “Not bad,” he gasped, “but I can do better.” His hands had been on Dean’s face, caressing, stroking, but he lifted himself up slightly to bring them down, one on the small of Dean’s back, the other cupping the stiffness in his jeans.

Dean arched off the floor, a loud groan ripping from his chest—

“What the _hell_?”

It was as if someone had poured ice water over his head; his blood froze. Cas rolled off him immediately, and he shot to his feet to see John standing in the doorway to the apartment, spitting mad, like a bull about to charge.

Dean opened his mouth to respond but the words choked him. He could feel his heart racing, his lips throbbing, and another throbbing farther down, but all he really felt was terror. Behind him, there was jingling as Cas fumbled to buckle his belt. The look in John’s eyes was the same one he’d seen years ago, in a similar situation. It was a nightmare.

His mouth was still hanging open, and he struggled to find something, _anything_ to say. “Uh—Dad.”

John stormed at them, head forward, eyes glaring. From over the back of the couch, he regarded them both with revulsion, but his gaze was fixed on his son. “You’re filthy,” he spat. “Sick.” He shook his head. “I can’t believe you—doing this shit again. I thought you’d gotten over that.”

“I’m sorry,” Dean said, his chest tight. He wasn’t sure why he was apologizing.

“I thought I stamped it out of you, dammit!” John’s voice rose without warning, sudden and appallingly loud. He slammed a fist against the wall as he yelled; Dean flinched. “I won’t have my son acting like an animal!”

Dean stared at him. He heard the click of Sam’s bedroom door over the pounding of his pulse. “What’s going—?”

“Nothing, Sam.” All three of them said it at the same time. “Go back to bed.” That was Cas. Out of the corner of his eye, Dean saw him say something to the kid, too soft to hear.

“Please, Dad,” Dean begged, “don’t.” _Don’t what?_ He couldn’t answer his own question. Don’t get mad, don’t throw anything, don’t hit me, don’t take it out on Sam… He’d said it all before. “There’s nothing to get mad about.”

“Nothing!” John laughed without any humor and glanced at the door; Sam had vanished behind it again. He came closer, Dean taking a step back, trying to escape his dangerous eyes. “This—this _behavior_ ,” he said in a low hiss, “it’s nothing but evil. I always knew it, that there was something off about you. And, god, I tried to fix it, but—” He broke off, gripping the back of the couch with both hands, the muscles knotting. “And around your brother, too? I don’t give a shit what you do in private, I really don’t, but you’re corrupting him. He’s just a kid. You know how much he looks up to you?”

Dean shook his head, not disagreeing but trying somehow to stop listening. It didn’t work.

“You hang the fuckin’ moon for him, and here you are, an _abomination_ , teaching him how to throw everything away. What your mother would say if she could see you, I don’t like to think.”

There was a shadow beside him, past him, charging forward to meet John’s rage. “Stop,” Cas growled, “or I swear to God—” and Dean looked up. Those blue eyes were full of a cold fire now.

And John must have seen something in them that frightened him. He sneered, looked Cas up and down, and spat in his face before yanking the door open and stalking out. The bang when he slammed it shut made Dean jump.

Cas turned to face Dean fully, wiping at his cheek. “That was somewhat medieval,” he said quietly.

“Yeah.” Dean nodded without really knowing what he was agreeing to, and sank onto the couch, kneading his forehead with his hands. He felt numb. He felt exhausted. He felt—a hand on his shoulder, and a weight on the cushion beside him. Cas.

“Dean?” Sam was there when he whipped around, and although he wasn’t a child, he looked about ten to Dean, as scared as he felt.

“Hey, Sammy. I, um.” He blinked hard.

“He’s not coming back, is he?”

“I don’t think so.” God, he hoped he was right. “Sammy, could—could we talk about this tomorrow? Please?”

There was a slight pause. “’Kay.”

When the door clicked shut, Dean crumbled. There were no tears, but he felt his lungs collapsing as he exhaled an impossibly huge breath, his eyes squeezed shut.

“Dean, it’s going to be all right,” Cas murmured, rubbing his hand across his shoulders. “You said it. He’s gone. You can relax.”

Dean shook his head. “He’s right,” he said through gritted teeth.

“About what? Dean, you can’t think—”

“I don’t do right by Sammy.” And then came the tears, and he gasped, trying not to sob and failing miserably. God, he hadn’t cried in years—probably not since the last time he’d been caught with a boy, come to think of it. Because Cas was there and so kind, he let himself be pulled into the embrace, leaning his forehead on his shoulder and shaking with every breath.

Some words were whispered in his ear, but he didn’t understand most of them, nor did he care to. “I screwed it up,” he groaned, a few times over.

Cas must have known what he needed, which was just to be held. He didn’t argue about the things he said. He didn’t complain when his shirt developed a soaking wet patch.

After several minutes Dean forced himself to stop and pulled away. He wiped his eyes and grabbed his overshirt from the floor—now he was cold, freezing, so he put it on. “Sorry,” he muttered.

“Don’t be.”

He was done crying, but he felt fragile in a way. Like he might collapse at any second. So he leaned into Cas again. No kisses, just comfort. At some point they both tipped sideways, and fell asleep together, wrapped in each other’s arms.

The next morning Dean woke to silence and tried not to move, tried not to concentrate on anything. But his head hurt, so eventually he was forced to rise. The apartment looked different somehow, as if something invisible had been removed or added, but he couldn’t figure out what it was. Maybe it was something in him.

There was nowhere to go and nothing to do—not even any alcohol, thanks to John. Dean wandered into his bedroom and looked out the window. The city, still blanketed in snow, didn’t provide the distraction he wanted. Then his eyes came to rest on the beer he’d forgotten the night before, right where he’d set it down on the dresser. It was room temperature but he couldn’t bring himself to care.

Cas found him sitting in his chair with the bottle in his hand, his eyes closed. Dean didn’t notice he was there until he heard the wooden door frame creak.

“Hey,” he mumbled. It was the first thing he’d said that morning, and his voice was a croak. He cleared his throat. “Morning.”

Looking distinctly uncomfortable, Cas walked towards him. He didn’t seem to know what to do with his hands. “Dean,” he said, and sighed. “I—how are you… how are you doing?”

“How am I doing? I’ve been better.”

Cas nodded. “Right, well. I… I want to apologize. For—my part, I suppose, in what happened. And if you want to forget all of it, I can do that.”

Dean stared at him. “Why?”

Cas blinked. “What?”

He couldn’t quite comprehend it. Setting down the beer, he squinted at Cas. “You think I want… Oh.” Wow. “No, Cas—I mean, maybe it would be a good idea to put it all behind us, and maybe you can do it, but I sure as hell can’t.”

“I’m sorry.” Cas looked down.

Dean stood up, shaking his head. “Don’t be.” He heard the echo of Cas’s voice in his words, and smiled as he stepped closer. “I don’t wanna have a chick-flick moment,” he said, “but, uh, last night was awesome. This part of it, at least.” He circled his arms around Cas’s waist and drew him in. “And I don’t _want_ to forget it.”

Cas looked up at him with so much hope and a shy smile. “As you wish.” He kissed him on the cheek.

“God,” Dean whispered, “you’re such a sap. What does that even mean?”

“You’ve never seen _The Princess Bride_? Dean, it’s classic.” His voice was so low, the tone so different from the words, that it was hard to concentrate on what he was actually saying.

Dean snorted. “And what kind of a name is that? I said no chick-flicks.”

“It’s not,” Cas protested, “it’s an action movie.” He placed another finger on Dean’s collarbone with every word. “It’s got fencing, fighting, torture, revenge, giants, monsters, chases, escapes…”

“Are you sure?”

“True love,” Cas continued. “Miracles.”

Dean rolled his eyes. “Doesn’t sound too bad,” he allowed. He pulled away but caught Cas’s hand, leading him back into the living room. “Want anything?” he asked from the fridge.

“What is there?”

“Um, let’s see.” The white light made the whole room glow. “Not much. Eggnog, but we’re saving that for Christmas. Oh, there’s still one more can of root beer.”

“Anything to eat?”

“Leftover noodles.” Dean shut the fridge and opened some cabinets. “Some crackers and a loaf of bread. I’m going shopping tonight.”

“I need to get a job,” Cas said.

Dean raised an eyebrow as he turned around. “A little out of the blue, but okay. If you want to.”

“I do. _And_ I need to. I mean, I don’t really understand how you’ve been able to afford keeping me here for two weeks without extra money.”

“Well.” If he was honest, they hadn’t been able to. With John there, though, money hadn’t been a number-one concern. It was more about keeping the bastard satisfied. But all he said was, “We’ve managed.” Cas didn’t look convinced. “Any ideas of where you’ll look?”

Cas hesitated.

“Hey, guys.” Sam shuffled out of his room, looking exhausted. And no wonder—the clock said it was barely five o’clock. “Is he actually gone or was I dreaming?”

Dean reached out to mess up his hair, a little disgruntled at the way he had to raise his arm _up_ to do so. “It’s true,” he said. “Cas kicked him out.”

“Cas did?” Rubbing the sleep from his face, Sam peered at Cas between his fingers.

“It was nothing special,” Cas protested. “Just something that was necessary.”

There was a pause, and Dean realized an uncomfortable fact—it had been necessary, and he hadn’t been the one to do it. The doubts that had haunted him, that he’d sobbed last night, trickled into his mind again: _John was right._

But Sam’s next words distracted him. “What was he so mad about, anyways?”

“He was drunk,” Dean said, at the same time as Cas said, “We were on his couch.”

Dean smiled, trying to hide his nervousness. Neither of those were exactly false, as it turned out. “He was drunk and mad because he wanted to go to sleep on the couch, and we were there. And, uh, I guess he’d had enough.”

Sam still looked uncertain, focusing in on Dean with an unsettling intensity. “That’s good, right?”

He had to look away. “Yeah, man. It’s freakin’ great. I mean, he didn’t even break anything.” When he glanced back up at his brother, he was relieved to see that his expression had smoothed over.

“You’re up early,” Cas noted.

“I couldn’t sleep much,” Sam confessed. “I was—kind of worried.”

“Jeez, kid, don’t mess yourself up about all this.” Dean gave him a one-armed hug. “Now get goin’.” He gave Sam a little shove in the direction of his bedroom. “You’ve got an hour and a half before school, so maybe you can catch a few more minutes of shut-eye.” He watched Sam go, satisfied, but with foreboding gnawing on the edges of his mind.

Giving himself a shake, he turned back to Cas. “So, a job, huh?”

“Yes, hopefully.”

“Well, I know a place that could always use an extra hand. If you don’t mind a crowd.”

***

So that was how Dean ended up dragging Cas into the Roadhouse, laughing, mostly at the petrified look he’d received when they heard the noise. It had been clearly audible from the street. The place was closed by now, but he thought his ears were still ringing.

“You weren’t joking about the crowd,” Cas said, joking but accusatory.

“You’ll get used to it,” he said over his shoulder.

Jo was wiping the bar, and she looked up in surprise when the door swung shut behind them. “Dean, you didn’t have to come in at all today.” When he’d come into work the day after he brought Cas home, still seething about John, Ellen had sent him away on paid leave with an order not to bother himself about the place until his dad had left. He’d come in once or twice anyways, when he couldn’t handle being at home.

“He’s gone,” he said, shaking his head, not faking his smile at all. “So I did have to, actually.”

Ellen bustled up then. “Did he run away again?”

“Something like that.”

“I hope you gave him a kick in the jewels from me.” She grinned at him, then noticed Cas. “Who’s your friend?”

Cas stepped up to the bar and held out his hand. “Castiel Novak,” he said.

“Ellen Harvelle.” She shook his hand warmly. “What can I do for you, Mr. Novak?”

“Just call me Cas,” he rushed. “And I was wondering if you have any vacancies in your staff?”

Well, okay, that wasn’t exactly the way Dean would have said it, but at least there _was_ a vacancy; Dean had made sure to tell Cas that.

Ellen took a second to digest pretty much everything about Cas—his formal tone, the way he stood straight up like he was balancing something on his head, the way he only blinked about once a minute. It was all very out of place in the Roadhouse. But then she seemed to relax and smiled widely. “As it happens, we do. And any friend of Dean’s is a friend of ours, but first I gotta know some things.”

“Oh?” Cas looked somewhat taken aback. Dean wanted to laugh, tell him to just take a deep breath or something, but he stayed quiet and watched.

“Well, for starters, have you ever tended bar in your life?”

Cas shook his head.

“Any experience in restaurants?”

Another shake.

Ellen’s eyes crinkled around the corners. “Can you do math?”

Cas nodded, a little too enthusiastically. “I have a degree in economics.”

“Do you now?”

As they spoke, Ash ambled out of the back room and sidled over to Dean. “Is this the dude you ate lunch with?” he asked.

“Oh—yeah.”

Ash chuckled. “He looks like he’s being chewed up.”

“What are you _on?_ ”

“A shitload of wonderful things, my man.” He shook his head. “But I mean it. There’s something eating at him, you know? Like a secret?” He leaned in close. “Maybe he killed a guy.”

“Shut up.”

“Why, do you know what it is?”

“He doesn’t _have_ a secret,” Dean insisted. Except he knew what it was, and it brought a flush to his face just thinking about it. Damn, the guy could kiss. And do, uh, _other_ things equally well. Grimacing, he changed the subject to cars.

Half an hour later, he and Cas left the bar. “How’d she set you up?” he asked as he started the Impala.

“I’ll be doing their finances,” Cas said. “And cleaning.”

“Elbow grease, huh?”

“It’s better than I could have hoped for.” As it often did, Cas’s unflinching honesty surprised him. “But, Dean…”

“What? Did Ellen make you uncomfortable? She can do that, but everyone gets over it eventually.”

“No, Ellen’s wonderful; she gave me two months’ paycheck in advance. But I was thinking—we need to talk.”

What was that supposed to mean? “Uh, go ahead, man. The floor’s open.”

“What happened last night—”

“We _did_ talk about this.”

“No, we didn’t.” Cas’s voice was firm. “You said you were… okay with it, and I am too, obviously, but we need to be realistic.”

“I thought that’s what getting a job was about.”

“I mean about how long I’m going to stay.”

“Oh.” It was something Dean had hardly thought about, impractical as that was. “You mean, even after the snow melts?”

“Yes.”

Dean pushed down his surprise. “How long do you _want_ to stay?”

He saw Cas shrug out of the corner of his eye. “I don’t want to impose. But,” he continued, louder, as Dean started to speak, “I don’t exactly… want to leave.”

“Not exactly, as in…?”

“Not at all,” Cas sighed. “But I will, if it’s a problem.”

Dean rolled his eyes. “Okay, I _know_ we’ve been through this before. It’s not a problem. And even if it had been before, you’ve got a job now, so.” There was still silence. “Just spit it out, Cas.”

When he did speak, it was with a quiet incredulity. “You don’t mind me staying… forever?”

“Well,” Dean amended, “not in that apartment, because sooner or later Sammy’s gonna be a lawyer and hit the big bucks. But, uh, yeah.” He swallowed. “Forever, if you want to.”

“You know I do,” Cas said, and leaned over to press a kiss into his cheek.


	5. Chapter 5

Sam’s winter break started the next day, and then it was the three of them. The first day, Sam made a paper chain and stuck it on the wall. There were only six links, but he still pulled one off each morning with a fastidiousness that made Dean smile.

To be honest, there was a lot to smile about. The two months’ pay from Cas was donated to the Christmas fund. So they bought a tree. It was a small one, just three feet tall, but it came with lights and they added an angel tree-topper to the cart. Dean noticed that it had blue eyes. When he pointed this out to Cas, and said something about how that made it perfect, Cas pushed him. “Who’s the sap now?”

Presents quickly accumulated around the bottom, wrapped in old newspapers with designs in permanent marker.

Sam smiled the most, Dean realized. And he also realized how much he’d missed that—the kid’s grin lit up his whole face, and he hadn’t seen it in a while. Not in the two weeks John had been there, but not much before that, either. He didn’t seem to have a lot of homework this time around, which was a nice change.

“Hey, you know what we should do?” Dean asked two days before Christmas. Sam was reading a library book on the couch and Cas, as he often did, was dozing on the floor.

“What?” Cas lifted his head off the ground.

“There’s supposed to be a caroling thing in the park tonight. Late.” It was already past ten o’clock, but the posters had listed it for eleven.

Sam laughed. “You, caroling?”

“It’s all rock adaptations,” Dean explained, bristling slightly. “Fun stuff, apparently. What do you say we check it out?”

He knew Cas preferred classical, the nerd. But he nodded anyways, looking thoughtful if not overly enthusiastic. Sam had already closed his book. “I’m game.”

The park was freezing, much colder than the last time he’d visited—Halloween. Their jackets weren’t quite enough to stop the chill. Still, they were warm enough as they stood in the crowd with people pressing in on all sides. The band, “The Hectic Glow” according to the ad, hadn’t started yet, so the only sounds were the chatter of nearly a hundred people.

“Oh!” Sam nudged Dean in the ribs. “See those guys over there?” He nodded at a clump of kids, two guys and a girl.

“Those punks?” He chuckled at the look Sam gave him. “Yeah, I see ‘em.”

“They’re my _friends_ ,” Sam said. “I’m gonna go watch with them, ‘kay?”

“Yeah, go ahead.” As he walked away, Dean called after him, “Meet me at the car!”

Cas leaned into his other side. “I thought you said he didn’t have any friends,” he laughed.

“Well, he didn’t talk about them with me, I guess.” He eyed the group, talking eagerly to Sam. “You think they’re good kids?”

“I think the girl likes him,” Cas observed.

After a few moments of watching them, Dean had to agree. She hardly took her eyes off of him, laughing at everything he said. And from what he could see, Sam liked her, too. He smiled at her, even when somebody else was talking.

With his attention elsewhere, it was something of a surprise when Cas wrapped his arms around his neck, pulling him down. In the cold air their breath made clouds. The noise of the crowd vanished when their lips touched; it made him feel so warm that the coat seemed unnecessary. To be honest, all their clothes seemed unnecessary at that moment, but he just smiled and pulled Cas closer by the lapels of his coat.

Then the microphone screeched, and they broke apart, Cas laughing quietly.

“Merry Christmas, folks!” The guy talking into the mic was covered in so many tattoos, it was hard to make out his facial features. “How are y’all doin’ out here?” A cheer rose from the crowd. “Yeah, me too! Let’s get this party started!” The other three band members joined him on stage, all similarly tattooed, with the bassist sporting enough metal to put the dollar back on the gold standard.

The opening riff of “Feliz Navidad” was so loud, Dean thought his eardrums would suffer permanent damage. Cas’s hand wormed its way into his pocket halfway through the song and stayed there until the end of “God Rest Ye, Merry Gentlemen.” That was the point at which Dean abandoned his sense of self-preservation and slung an arm around Cas’s shoulders.

The concert did not disappoint. Sam was right; he’d never been one for carols. Too touchy-feely. By the end, though, he felt a kind of affection for “Christmas Shoes,” of all things. Maybe it had something to do with the weight of Cas against him combined with a stinging cold sensation around his nose and ears.

After tossing a dollar into the donation bucket, they headed back to the Impala to wait for Sam. Dean pulled away from Cas en route. By the time they reached the car, their flushes, he hoped, had faded.

Sam hurried up to them with the other kids trailing behind him. “Hey, Dean? Can I go to a Christmas party tonight?”

“Depends on who you’re with,” Dean told him. “Who’s in your gang here?”

“Oh, uh—” He motioned for the three of them to step forward. “This is Andy, Jake, and Jessica.” They eyed him a little uncertainly.

And, yep, Sam was definitely looking at the girl, Jessica, as a little more than a friend. Dean grinned. “Sure you can. How late will it go?”

“Not sure,” said Jake, who looked as if he were about ninety percent muscle.

When Dean hesitated, Cas spoke, quietly enough that Dean was the only one to hear what he said. “You’re always saying he deserves to have some fun.”

That settled it. “Stay out as long as you want,” he said.

Sam, clearly ecstatic, rushed “Thanks!” and then vanished.

They got into the Impala, and then Dean turned to Cas. “So,” he said, “how are _we_ gonna have fun?”

The smile on his face was a special one, and it set Dean’s spine tingling. “Just drive,” Cas ordered.

***

When Dean woke the next morning he was immediately aware of the body beside him beneath the blankets, the head on his chest, the legs twined with his. Cas. In a bed, _his_ bed. With him. He and Cas were in his bed _together_. It was something he’d imagined so many times. He let the sensation wash over him, his eyes closed.

He opened them when Cas stirred, tightening his arm around his waist. “Morning,” Dean murmured.

Cas grunted and buried his face in Dean’s chest.

As he slid out of bed, Dean chuckled. “One coffee, coming right up.” Throwing on some clothes, he opened the door and crept into the living room. He saw Sam’s coat hanging by the door and let out a small breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding. While he started the coffee pot and made himself some cereal, he wondered how he would explain why Cas was in his room and not on the couch. Maybe Sam hadn’t even noticed. It wasn’t overly likely, but he could hope. Shaking his head, he got up to wash his bowl and spoon.

When Cas shuffled out of the bedroom a minute later, wearing a pair of ratty flannel pants and the scowl Dean loved so much, he made a beeline for the coffee. “Thank you,” he rasped as he poured it, steaming, into a mug.

Dean gave him a quick kiss on the cheek in response—or he tried to. Cas turned his head at the last second so that their lips met. His eyes closing automatically, Dean _melted_. A hand came up to rest on the side of his neck, the other pressing on the small of his back, fitting them closely together. He let out a small sigh and yielded to the rhythm Cas set, their mouths moving in tandem.

Sam’s bedsprings creaked.

When he emerged a few seconds later, Cas was staring into his coffee and Dean was rinsing suds from the dishes. “Fun party?” he asked in a level tone.

“Yeah,” Sam yawned. “There was pizza.”

“Well, that settles it. I’m going to the next one.” Dean watched as he poured milk into another bowl and reached for the cereal. “Meet any girls?”

Sam rolled his eyes. “No. What’d you guys do last night?”

Across the small kitchen, Cas took a giant gulp of coffee and choked. Sam and Dean both started forward, concerned, but he waved them off. “Hot," he gasped, his eyes watering.

Dean tried not to smile. As a diversion tactic, it had certainly had the intended effect—Sam gave Cas a towel for the drops that had splattered and returned to making his breakfast.

Half an hour later, Dean took off in the Impala, but didn’t go to the garage. Instead he pulled into the parking lot of a strip mall about half a mile from the apartment. On December twenty-fourth, the place was packed.

Still, Dean prided himself on his prowess as he navigated the stores, trying not to feel like a creep as he wound his way past the line of children waiting to sit on Santa’s lap. It had been stupid to wait this long, but his excitement simmered as he entered the store. All it took was a few forms and some I.D. and he was walking out into the chill air again, gripping the small package tightly.

***

On Christmas morning Dean woke as early as he normally did, and rolled over, annoyed. But when he remained awake after several minutes, he got up with a groan and padded out of the bedroom.

Cas was stretched across the couch, his position precarious, with the blankets pulled up to his chin and one arm trailing on the ground. Dean carefully stepped around him and plugged in the Christmas lights, watching as the tree lit up. There was a good-sized stack of presents under the branches, he noted with a smile.

The stove heated up while he mixed batter in a chipped bowl, one that they’d had since the fire. As he stirred, he tried to remember Christmas with his mom. It wasn’t easy, and he’d tried before, of course. There were flashes of red and green, and the taste of peppermint… the most vivid memory was the smell of gingerbread. John had once said something about making little houses and men out of the stuff, complete with icing and gumdrops.

Well, if they couldn’t have that, they could at least have pancakes, Dean reasoned as he poured the first one into a pan. He amused himself by drawing a face in it. Then, feeling equally ridiculous and artistic, he continued to swirl pictures into the food with each new pancake.

Cas woke up halfway through and came to stand next to Dean while his coffee percolated.

“You could sell those for good money,” he remarked as Dean made the jagged edges of a pine tree. As an afterthought, he added a star to the top. “Ah, I see we’re getting into the holiday mood.”

“If I’m not by now, then I’m officially a humbug.”

Cas squinted. “I don’t think you said that correctly.”

“Shut up and help me cook.”

“I’d rather watch you.”

There was something in Cas’s tone that was not entirely flirtatious, and Dean turned his head to see him looking more than a little evasive. He laughed out loud as he understood in a burst of intuition. “Seriously, man? You can’t cook? I mean, I’m not exactly Gordon Ramsay, but not even a _little_? You’re joking.”

“Unfortunately not,” Cas said, shaking his head. He sounded embarrassed, but he was smiling enough that Dean didn’t feel bad.

“Then this is your first lesson—flipping the pancake. Stand back.” He got into something of a fighter’s stance and shifted his grip on the skillet’s handle. “Okay, on three—”

“Have you ever done this before?”

“No. One—two—three—” He jerked the pan in a quick motion, forward and then backward. At least, that had been his intention, but the pancake did not fly. It flopped out of the pan and onto the floor. And in what was a streak of undeniably bad luck, it landed uncooked-side-down.

“Well done,” Cas laughed. “I think I’ll take lessons from someone else.”

Dean surveyed the failure with disdain. “Merry Christmas.” He set the skillet aside and quickly disposed of the ruined pancake before pouring out more batter and placing the pan back on the stove. “What should this one be?”

“A heart.”

“God, no.”

“Then a honeybee.” Cas stretched his arm around Dean and rested his head on his shoulder.

Dean leaned into him for a moment as he complied. “Why that?”

“I don’t know. I just like to watch them.” Cas hesitated. “They’re little miracles. So important, you know? But so small.”

“I guess.” Dean wrapped his own arm around Cas and twisted to kiss him on the forehead.

“Just don’t start making out in front of me, okay?”

Sam’s voice sent a jolt of shock through Dean. Heat rushed to his face; he tried to pull away but nearly sent the skillet crashing to the floor. Flailing to save it, he ended up closer than ever to Cas, who looked just as surprised as he felt.

Dean turned his head to see Sam standing in his doorway with a mixed expression. It was hard to read, not overtly horrified or disgusted, and yet—

“Are you gonna have a stroke?”

He remembered to breathe, and blinked. “Well, yeah, if you ever sneak up on me like that again. Jesus Christ, kid.”

Sam smirked. “Sorry, I guess.” He moved into the living room to inspect the tree and the presents underneath it.

The sudden silence was deafening. Cas grinned—and then he _giggled_. Dean took one look at him and started laughing as well. He drew an exclamation point in the next pancake.

When he set the pancakes on the table and made Sam sit down, his brother raised his eyebrows at the “art,” but devoured them so quickly that it didn’t seem to matter. Of course, by that point, they were all rushing, losing a surprising amount of maturity in their giddiness. They made an assembly line to clean dishes, with Dean washing, Cas rinsing, and Sam drying.

Circling around the tree, Dean handed out presents. Sam had explained the tradition to Cas while they ate, so they lost no time in all ripping into the paper at the same time. There was no rhyme or reason to Christmas in the Winchester household.

Sam was the first to let out a yell of excitement, staring at the silver laptop he held gingerly in front of him. “Dean,” he whispered.

“Don’t look at me,” Dean said, holding his hands up.

“Cas?”

He smiled. “I thought you could use it, for school and—fun stuff.” When Sam set the laptop aside and half-fell on him in a hug, Cas’s face was both bewildered and affectionate. But after being released, he caught the glance Dean threw him. “It was used, and on sale,” he explained.

“I don’t care,” Sam said. He seemed reluctant to take his eyes off of it.

Only a few seconds later, Dean tore open Cas’s gift to him. He’d recognized it by the loose paper held together with excessive amounts of tape. He laughed when he saw it was a DVD— _The Untouchables_.

“Man, I’ve wanted this for years!”

“Hey, Dean,” Sam said loudly, grinning, “what would you have been prepared to do to get it?”

“Anything within the law,” he replied.

“And _then_ what would you have been prepared to do?”

Their mangled quotations were interrupted by a gasp from Cas, only a few seconds later, running his finger along the spine of the thickest book Dean had ever seen. “What is it?” he demanded.

Cas turned it so Dean could see the cover. “Greek tragedies,” he murmured. To Sam, he said quietly, “Thank you.”

“No problem, man.” Sam seemed to sense the earnestness behind Cas’s usual formality.

“Open mine next,” Dean ordered. God, he sounded like a child.

There was a moment of confusion as Cas poked at the lump of tan fabric, but then he held it up higher and the folds fell out—and he was holding a trench coat.

The way Cas was looking at him… Dean felt a need to fill the sudden silence. “It’s not that yours was bad or anything, but it was just, like, really thin and it had some holes, you know, and so I thought you might like this one, I guess. Um.” He clamped his mouth shut.

“Don’t kiss!” Sam all but yelled, and just in time, because they had definitely been leaning in that direction. He rolled his eyes at the look Dean gave him. “Okay, fine, whatever.”

Dean barely had time to snicker before Cas was pressing on his lips, then quickly receding. He blinked, trying not to grin too much; it had been so comfortable—more than he would ever have thought was possible with an audience.

Soon Sam was freaking out again, this time over a set of Vonnegut books from Dean. They had been his since ninth grade but Sammy had been eyeing them for years. He hadn’t wanted to let them go. Yet the look on the kid’s face when he saw them, dog-eared and battered as they were, was worth it.

Dean opened his last present with a flourish, brandishing the Metallica CD in Cas’s face and whooping. “Damn,” he said, “you guys really know how to treat a guy, don’t you?” But as he took in the two of them kneeling among the crumpled newspaper, he got the feeling that he would have been just as pleased if the morning had passed without any presents at all.

And if he was quoting _The Grinch_ , even to himself, then it was definitely time to move on. Messing up Sam’s hair as he got to his feet, Dean gathered the paper and nodded at his gifts. “Put those on my bed, Cas?”

When he’d dumped the paper in the trash, he followed Cas into his bedroom to see him reading the back of the _Untouchables_ DVD. “I can see why you like it,” he said. “There is a certain intrigue.”

“Cas.” When he turned around, Dean grinned, digging his hand into the pocket of his jeans. “I, uh, I got something else for you. One last gift.” He pulled out the key and offered it up on his palm. “It was just finished yesterday.”

As Cas took it, the engraving of the apartment building’s logo winked across the metal. He examined it as if it were fragile, precious. His lips parted minutely and his brow furrowed. “I—don’t know what to say.”

“Say you’ll stay?” As a question it sounded so _stupid_ , not at all like he’d imagined it. And now the guy wasn’t saying anything at all, even when he’d gone through all the paperwork and fees to get the copy made, even when he was putting his damn heart on the line here; he could at least have the decency to say no instead of just standing there—

He staggered back a step as Cas threw his arms around him, knocking him off-balance. No words were spoken, but the gratitude was clear. Dean returned the embrace. He could feel himself sinking, in love with the simple warmth and strength of him, and also, more than a little, with the way his breath ruffled the hair by his ear ever so slightly.

He knew he was in over his head, but somehow, he couldn’t bring himself to care.


	6. Chapter 6

It was some kind of paradise, then.

If someone were to look at pictures of them, before and after, Dean didn’t think they would be recognizable. It had been difficult back then, in the time he’d come to think of as _before Cas_. Barely enough to eat, working 24/7—the only thing keeping it bearable was Sam, who didn’t care how bad it was as long as they stayed together.

Now, _with Cas_ , it didn’t feel like anything was hard, not even the bills or the phone call from John the day after Christmas. They kissed on New Year’s Eve and it was the simplest thing in the world. Sam dumped cheap confetti over their heads.

When the bottom fell out, it was no surprise that paradise became hell.

***

_Beep beep. Beep beep. Beep beep._

A small noise, growing steadily more insistent, was the first thing Dean noticed. It didn’t seem very important. But he couldn’t ignore it after a few minutes, and when he gave up, he became aware of other things. The bed, for one. It wasn’t hard or soft, exactly, but he knew that it wasn’t his. No comforter. No Cas next to him. It was tilted up slightly, so he wasn’t lying flat. And the air smelled different, almost sharp.

He opened his eyes to see white walls and bright lights—and a worried face hanging over his. “Dean?”

His mouth tasted like something had died in it. “Sammy.”

Sam smiled. “Hey. How do you feel?”

“Um, like I’m at the bottom of a swimming pool.” It wasn’t an exaggeration. Everything was slightly blurry and sounds were taking a long time to travel.

“The doctors said that would happen.”

“What are...?” Even as he spoke, his eyes closed.

When he woke again, his head wasn’t so foggy. He looked around the room and saw the monitors with little squiggly lines running across the screen. But before he could form the next thought, the obvious one, someone on his other side scooted their chair across the floor.

The screeching noise caught his attention and he turned his head, startled. Cas was there, watching him, looking both concerned and relieved. “Thank God,” he breathed.

Dean noticed for the first time that his chest was covered in bandages where the blanket ended. He stared. “What the hell happened?” he asked, feeling dazed.

Cas covered Dean’s hand with his own. “You were attacked by a dog two days ago.”

Dean squinted at him. “A dog?”

“A stray. In the Roadhouse parking lot.”

He rubbed his eyes. “None of this makes any sense.”

“It’s common to have no memory of traumatic experiences.” A nurse with dark wavy hair stood in the doorway. “Your brain focuses on survival, not remembering, in a fight-or-flight moment. And with what happened to you…” She whistled.

“This is Meg,” Cas said, smiling at her. “Your caretaker.”

“I only stay ‘cause he’s cute,” she said, and jerked her head in Cas’s direction while checking Dean’s IV drip. “That should take effect in a few minutes.”

“You look upset,” Cas noted after she’d gone.

“Do I?” Dean fiddled with the trim of the blanket. “I lost a lot of blood, right?” Cas nodded. “And probably got some vaccines for rabies and shit, too.” He groaned, squeezing his eyes shut. “Great.”

“What is it?”

“We can’t _afford_ a hospital, Cas!” His voice rasped as it rose, and the beeping machine increased its tempo. “We don’t even have insurance.”

Cas’s hand moved to his shoulder. “Calm down.”

“I won’t be able to work. We’ll lose the fucking apartment.”

“Dean, you need to relax. That’s not going to happen.”

He snorted.

“I’m serious.” Cas gripped his shoulder so tightly that he opened his eyes. “It _will_ be all right, I promise. But only if you calm down and get better.”

Dean rolled his eyes. “You sound like my mother.”

“Well, if you won’t take care of yourself, I have to.”

He sighed and winced. Apart from the sinking feeling, there was another pain, more solid. “What did happen, anyway?” he asked. “I don’t remember… anything. Nothing after getting out of the Impala at the Roadhouse.” _The Impala._ Another thing they’d lose.

Cas shifted in his seat. “The security camera across the street showed you crossing the parking lot, but then you stopped and walked over to the dumpster. It looks like you saw the dog, because you bent down to look underneath. Then it just came flying out at you, and you fell over backwards with it on top of you…” He swallowed. “I was working in the back room when I heard you screaming. I ran out and—you were just lying there; the dog had gone back to the dumpster, so I didn’t know what had happened, but you weren’t moving and there was so much blood.”

Cas broke off, blinking, and took a deep breath. “Sorry,” he muttered. “I just—I thought you were dead.”

“I’m not.” Dean tried for humor, hating the watery brightness of Cas’s eyes.

He gave a shaky smile. “I know. I’m very grateful.”

“Yeah, to that nurse, I’ll bet.”

“Are you jealous?” There was a real smile now.

“Should I be? I mean, she thinks you’re cute.”

Cas chuckled. “She does have a… certain allure, I’ll admit. All of that thorny pain. So beautiful.”

Dean scowled. “Half-dead or not, I will punch you.”

Cas leaned in close. “You’re also full of thorny pain.” The effect, weak to begin with, was completely ruined by his grin.

“I don’t like poetry.”

“Put up or shut up, I know.” Cas grinned.

Silence reigned for a few moments. Dean could feel the drugs kicking in, finding it harder to think clearly. Then he asked, “Where’d Sammy go?”

“School. He didn’t really want to stay.” Seeing the expression on Dean’s face, Cas’s eyes widened. “No, Dean, not like that; he just—it was hard for him. For both of us. And he was upset that he couldn’t do anything, so he decided to go. He’ll be back later, I promise.”

“Oh. Well, good, I guess. He should… learn stuff. He can do anything, you know?” His eyelids felt heavy; he blinked hard. “Could probably… win a Nobel Prize…” He sighed. “…in bein’ a huge nerd.”

Cas laughed. “Go to sleep, Dean.”

“’Kay.” He let his eyes close, still feeling worried somewhere inside, but unable remember why. Just before he went out, he felt a pair of lips brush his forehead.

Cas was still there when he opened his eyes, sleeping in the chair with his chin on his chest. Dean watched him for a moment and thought about how he couldn’t feel anything, really—except, wait, why was he anxious? The knowledge hit him like a punch. _The bills._ Even stoned on painkillers, he felt himself starting to panic. “God _dammit_.”

“Is that how you start most mornings?”

The nurse, Meg, was in the doorway again. Dean pursed his lips. “Only the ones that start in hospital beds.”

“Fair enough.”

She didn’t move on, though; just kept looking at him. “What, do I have something on my face?”

“Nah, I was just thinking how weird it is that you pout when you’re angry.” She grinned. “Maybe that’s what your boyfriend here likes about you.”

“He’s not my boyfriend,” Dean said immediately.

“Well, you might wanna break that to him gently. I mean, do people who aren’t your boyfriend usually sit at your bedside for over thirty-six hours?” Meg shook her head. “I gotta say, you’re lucky to have someone as loaded as this guy.”

“Loaded? Cas?” What?

She raised her eyebrows. “He paid your bills?” Her tone seemed to imply that he should know this already.

“Cas?” he repeated.

“That’s what I said.” Her eyes widened. “You didn’t know? …Well, he did. And you don’t have insurance, so they weren’t small.” Taking in Dean’s expression, she rubbed her palms together. “Okay, I’ll just, uh, let you and Clarence talk it out when he wakes up.” She walked out, saying as she did so, “Yell if you need anything.”

With Meg gone, Dean tilted his head back against the pillow, not quite sure what to make of the conversation. The numbness was wearing off rapidly and his anxiety was turning into confusion.

After several minutes, he couldn’t stand _wondering_ anymore, so he reached out and poked Cas’s knee, the only part he could reach.

Cas gave a start and blinked his eyes open. Mumbling something unintelligible, he rubbed a hand over his jaw. “Morning,” he sighed. “How are you feeling?” When he didn’t get an answer, Cas sat up straighter. “Is something wrong?”

Dean chewed on his lower lip. “Uh, Meg—the nurse?” Cas nodded. “She was in here just now, and she said…” He hesitated, then forged ahead. “She said you’re paying the hospital bills. Which is stupid, right, ‘cause neither of us have any money.”

“She’s right,” Cas said softly, and when Dean looked at him he had an expression like a kid caught with his hand in the cookie jar. He gave a small smile. “I, well.” The smile gone, he leaned forward, all traces of sleep clearly gone as he rested his forehead in his hands, elbows braced on his knees.

“Just spit it out, Cas.” His voice sounded sharp, harsh, and distant, a product of the surreal feeling he could sense coming on.

Cas shook his head. “It’s not _simple_. I don’t… want you to think of me in the way that you will.”

“Right now, I don’t know what I’m thinking, so could you please just—?”

“Fine.” But he still seemed to have trouble opening his mouth. At last he said, “I’m not—well, I wasn’t—Dean, I lied to you.” Dean opened his mouth, not sure what he intended to say, but Cas kept going. “By omission, I mean. I just never wanted to tell you, and—”

Dean cut him off. “Tell me _what_?”

Cas sighed. “Just that, uh—in the beginning…” There was a very long pause before he spoke again. When he did, it was still slow and halting. “I was born into a very, ah, _influential_ family. My father owned a prominent law firm—you may have heard of it.” When Cas said the name, Dean's jaw dropped slightly. “I grew up here, as I told you, and when I graduated, my father decided that I should be a lawyer like the rest. So I went to California and attended Stanford. That… did not go well. I’m not cut out for that sort of career, as you know.”

He sighed. “I didn’t want to come back; I have never agreed with my family on very much. I stayed with a friend in New York. Then, several months ago, my father, who had been ill for some time, died. His will—specifically, his wishes concerning the company—were unclear. My brother Michael thought that all of us, as his children, should decide what to do with it. My friend convinced me to fly back and meet with them.

“It was a disaster. We argued for most of the time and—well, I left. Too many things had been said, I suppose, to stay around any longer.” Cas twisted his lips into a rueful smile. “I didn’t think it through; I just mailed my wallet to New York with a note saying that I was fine. And I walked out of the hotel and parked myself on a bus stop bench.”

“And then I sat down next to you.” Dean barely heard himself. He laughed without humor. “Man, that is fucked up. You just threw it all in the trash.”

Cas nodded. “I know. It was rash and impulsive. Stupid.”

“But not as fucked up,” Dean continued, “as pretending to be homeless.” He wasn’t sure if he was angry or confused or _what_ , but he was having a hard time keeping his voice under control.

“I know.”

“I mean, did you think at all?”

“When?” Cas had lifted his head from his hands and was staring at him.

“Ever. But let’s go with when you took twenty dollars from me almost every day and let me think I was helping someone out, while you were actually filthy rich.” And, yeah, okay, he was angry. “Or when I bought you lunch and took you into my place and you never told me the whole story.”

“I’m sorry, Dean.” It was barely more than a whisper. Cas wasn’t looking at him now.

“I’ll bet.” He stared at the wall on his other side, trying not to blink. “But you did it anyways, didn’t you?” He shook his head. “Dammit, Cas, I don’t know if we can fix this.”

There was a note of pleading when Cas spoke. “Dean, it’s not broken.”

“ _Everything’s_ broken,” he retorted, his voice rising well beyond what he had intended. “You lied to me for months. What am I supposed to do with that?”

“I didn’t intend—” Cas broke off. “I never wanted things to go on this long. I would have told you—I wanted to, I swear, but I didn’t know how.” There was a long silence. “If—if there’s anything I can do, any way to make this right…”

“Well.” Dean heaved a sigh, a dull ache in his throat. “You’ve evened things out between us now. I helped you from dying of hypothermia, you helped me from dying of debt. So.” He pushed the words out. “If you want to make it right, you have to give me the keys and get out.”

“Please—”

“Just go!” He kept his head turned away. If he looked, he would forgive him. He heard the rustling as Cas got to his feet, saw him accidentally out of the corner of his eye, noticed the stricken expression on his face. The door clicked shut.

There was something hot inside Dean’s chest. He didn’t feel numb anymore, but so _tired_. Was this what it felt like to bleed out? If it weren’t for the pristine whiteness of his bandages, he would have thought it was happening to him. Still, the pain—too real to be ignored, too internal to explain—made him squeeze his eyes shut, balling his hands into fists on the blankets.

***

When he came home a week later, stiff and sore, Sam watched from the couch as he went to the fridge for a beer and drank half of it at once, silently cursing himself for not buying anything stronger. At least it burned a little on the way down.

Dinner, eaten together without speaking, wasn’t tense or awkward. It was incomplete, which was worse. Neither of them acted like they felt the hole, but it was there like a vacuum in deep space.

Sam had confronted him about Cas the day after he’d sent him away and had seemed, somehow, without asking very many questions, to understand that the issue was honesty. Dean wasn’t sure if that _was_ the issue, but he let Sam believe it. The kid stopped pressing him pretty soon after that. Trust hadn’t been strong with John, either, so Dean could only imagine what was going through Sam’s head now. Maybe he hated Cas. That made two of them.

But, god, the person he hated most wasn’t Cas, but himself. For believing. For trusting. For falling so imperceptibly that it shouldn’t have been _possible_ to hit rock bottom like he was doing. And, of course, for doing whatever he had to Sam. Jesus, he’d screwed it up so badly. Gave him happiness, something like a family—a real one—and the key piece turned out to be a fraud.

After dinner Dean decided that he couldn’t face his brother. He slammed the door to their bedroom, no, _his_ bedroom, and stood in a stupor for a second. Cas had taken his things. Both trench coats, new and old, were gone; the Greek tragedies he’d kept on the nightstand were nowhere to be seen; the dresser, when Dean opened it, had fewer clothes than before. He could almost have been imaginary, if not for the key sitting on the wooden surface.

Bobby had come to see him in the hospital once. Two days after the separation, when Dean was trying to block everything out with drugs. The problem was, they would only let him have so much at one time.

“You get yourself in all kinds of trouble, don’t you?” The old man seated himself in the empty chair.

Dean shrugged. “This one wasn’t my fault.”

“’Course not,” Bobby said easily. “And you weren’t ever much of a dog person, if I remember right.”

“Can’t stand ‘em. They freak me out.”

“Sam said someone paid for all this.” He gestured around at the room.

“Yeah.” When it seemed like Bobby was waiting for something more, Dean sighed. “What? It was a friend. Kind of. I don’t know.” He wished for more painkillers, as if that would fix what was wrong with him. “He owed me.”

“Owed you thirty-five thousand dollars?”

“And he paid it, fair and square.”

Bobby gave him a long look. “I hope you said thank you,” he said at last.

In his room now, Dean breathed out sharply through his nose and shoved the dresser drawer shut. He couldn’t think. Didn’t want to. Returning to the living room, he threw a jacket at Sam. “Wanna catch a movie?”

***

Despite Dean’s best efforts, it was hard. _It_ was living, and damn if it wasn’t a struggle to open his eyes in the morning. But he did. He left the half-empty bed and slid clothes over his limbs. Sometimes he ate breakfast; sometimes he didn’t. Then he went to work.

The garage was simple. Elbow grease had always been good for Dean—he could lose himself in a particularly stubborn frame, or a dent that just wouldn’t straighten. He hated midday with a passion and worked through lunch, usually skipping it. Eating alone? No thanks.

It was working at the Roadhouse that gave him the most trouble. Ellen and Jo seemed to think he was spooked by the parking lot, traumatized or something. Ash laughed at the thought of being scared of a dumpster. Dean laughed, too. That was better than admitting that he hated working where he knew Cas had worked, even if it had only been for a few weeks. At least he was able to avoid the back office.

Ellen took it upon herself to check up on him one night after closing, a week and a half after he’d come back. It was quiet in the bar as she smiled at him from the sink. “Your brother called me today. He’s mighty worried about you,” she said.

Dean had been stacking glasses, but he looked up. “What?”

“You heard me.” She set aside her cloth and leaned on the bar next to him. “I didn’t ask why Castiel left—and I don’t want to know,” she added, seeing storm clouds gathering over Dean’s head. “You say it’s personal. I believe you. But whatever’s goin’ on in your head, you probably oughtta shove it up your ass.”

Dean blinked. “Well, don’t sugar coat it.”

Ellen’s mouth twisted. “Don’t get smart with me. You’ve been more of a father to your brother than you ever should’ve had to, but on this one, you’re startin’ to remind me of John. You don’t talk much, you spend all your time away from him, and you just get that look in your eyes…”

“What look?”

“Like your mind’s on one thing and it’s eating you up.”

Now it was Dean’s lip that curled. He went back to stacking. “I’ll talk to him.”

“Uh-huh.” But she moved away and started draining water from the sink. Over the sucking noise, she said, “You don’t fool me, kid. What’re you gonna do, go home and drink until your lights go out?”

He didn’t answer. But that night he could only muster a half-hearted “Everything good?” to Sam before flicking on the TV and ignoring the buzzing in the back of his mind.

The fact of the matter was, he had come to _after Cas_ , and it sure as hell hurt. If everything had been smooth before, it was all broken ground from here on out. He made coffee in the morning sometimes, if he didn’t catch himself, because if anyone wasn’t a morning person, it was Cas. Then he drank it all, even though he could hardly stand the stuff. Cas hated when he let things go to waste.

And he kept remembering little details that made so much more sense in hindsight. Like all the times Cas avoided talking about himself, or tried to change the subject when Dean talked about money, or acted so _guilty_ when the topic of law came up. Of course. If you’re a rich man pretending to be poor, you try not to let the cracks show.

So, yeah, _after Cas_ sucked, but Dean decided he had a life to live. So he tried to live it. But, really, he couldn’t even fool himself. The closest he got to normal was the night Sam studied until four in the morning and Dean stayed up with him, blasting a symphony to keep the kid awake. It was something they’d done a million times before. He could almost pretend that the last months were a daydream. God, he tried to.

Winter ended. The Roadhouse busted out the spring menu early when the groundhog didn’t see his shadow, and it was hard to feel too upset when the weather turned less frigid and water ran in little rivers at the edge of the road.

Sam spent less time at the apartment as school started to wind down. When asked, he said he was hanging out with friends, but he would never say who. Eventually, though, Dean pulled a name out of him—Jessica.

“The girl from the concert in the park?”

“Yeah.” He was _blushing_.

Dean smiled to himself as he stirred cheap macaroni on the stove. “Finally got yourself a girlfriend, huh?”

“What do you mean, finally?”

“Nothin’.”

There was a short pause. “Stop it!”

“What?” Dean looked at him over his shoulder. “I’m not doing anything.”

“Yes, you are; you’re smiling at me like—I don’t know, like you know something I don’t.”

His smile widened. “Well, you didn’t exactly hide how much you liked her, did you?”

“You’ve barely seen us together!”

“Sammy, I’d have to be _blind_ not to notice. I mean, come on.” Dean left the noodles to cook and leaned on the counter while he talked. “When was the last time you studied for a whole night without picking up the phone?” His brother opened his mouth, but Dean overrode him. “I’ll tell you: it was two weeks ago. And all you talk about, from what I can tell, is music and those geeky Vonnegut books you like.”

Sam scoffed. “You gave them to me.”

“Yeah, well, they’re still geeky. Anyways, who are you gonna talk to about music and books, for _hours_ , if you’re not head over heels for a chick?”

“God, shut up!”

Dean ducked the pillow that came flying at his head. “When do I get to meet her?”

“You?”

“Why not?”

Sam looked like he was deciding whether to laugh or get mad. “When did you get so, uh, family-oriented?”

“Stop answering questions with questions. Shit!” The last word was a yelp as an acrid smell reached Dean’s nose. Turning, he found that the macaroni was beginning to blacken. He stirred it hastily. “So, when?”

He heard Sam sigh. “Whenever you want to, I guess. Not tomorrow, though.”

“Why not, what’s tomorrow?”

“Um…” Sam didn’t speak for several moments; when he did, he sounded uncomfortable—almost afraid. “Tomorrow’s Thursday.”

“And?”

Sam’s voice was so quiet, Dean almost didn’t hear. “You’re worst on Thursdays.”

Dean wasn’t one for dramatics, but damn, those words were like shards of glass being driven into his skin. He hadn’t wanted to let Sam see how bad things were, not after the first few days. He’d kept his problems mostly to himself. Well, that had been the plan; obviously it hadn’t worked. And he knew exactly what _worst on Thursdays_ was about. His brain hadn’t quite figured out that the missing piece wasn’t coming back—because every Thursday he woke up and his first thought was that today he would have lunch with Cas. And then he had to spend the rest of the day trying to escape the disappointment.

He tried to brush away the guilt he felt, knowing he’d taken it out on Sam somehow, even without meaning to. Of course, it refused to be brushed away. So he turned off the burner and faced his brother. “Everything will be fine tomorrow, I promise.” Sam didn’t look convinced. “Seriously, I swear I’ll suck it up. I’ll make a real dinner. We can have a party or something, show Jessica how great you’ve got it.”

Sam half-smiled, half-grimaced. “I’d rather you never met her if that’s the impression you want to make.”

“Okay, fine.” Dean crossed his heart. “I will be perfectly charming and in no way embarrassing to my little brother when he brings his lady friend over.”

Sam made a face. “Good enough.”

When Jessica walked through the door the following night, Dean watched her face carefully. He’d seen a few different reactions to the apartment, usually ranging from pity to uncertainty to resignation. He was pleasantly surprised to see no change in her expression—she just looked at him and smiled, holding out her hand.

“I’m Dean,” he said, shaking it. “Nice to meet you, Jessica.” Sam shot him a surprised but pleased look.

“Just Jess,” she said.

The evening went uphill from there. Dean hardly talked, but he didn’t need to—Sam and Jess carried the conversation just fine. It was kind of funny, watching them go from comic books to their final English paper to the freaking Arab Spring without skipping a beat, grinning the whole time.

He made ravioli for dinner, throwing the money down the drain to get the good stuff. Not that he really knew what to do with it beyond drowning it in spaghetti sauce from a jar, but he managed not to burn anything. That counted as a success in his book.

When they sat down to eat, the two kids finally stopped talking. Dean watched apprehensively. “Well?”

Sam grinned. “It’s great.”

Jess nodded. “My parents never cook. This is amazing.”

“Don’t get the wrong idea,” Dean warned her. “This is a special occasion. Mostly it’s soup or a sandwich around here.”

“That’s good, too,” she said easily. “What kind of sandwiches?”

Dean grimaced. “Peanut butter and banana. Sammy here has deformed taste buds.”

Jess made the same face. “Ew, really?”

“Hey, I stand by that sandwich. At least it’s not black licorice.” Sam leveled a gaze at Dean.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” he demanded.

Sam turned to Jess. “He loves the stuff. But it tastes like dirt.”

“It does not,” Dean insisted. “It’s a classic movie food! It’s right up there with popcorn!”

“Popcorn? Seriously?”

Dean scowled, stabbing a ravioli viciously. “What’s not to like? They’re like little chewy pieces of heaven—”

“Yeah, if you’re a girl.”

Jess gasped and hit him on the arm. “Excuse me?”

Sam’s fork fell from his fingers. “Sorry!”

“Yeah, you’d better be.”

Sam blushed.

Two hours later, having thoroughly rolled his eyes at Sam after Jess had gone, Dean sat on the side of his bed. He squeezed his eyes shut, trying not to think or even breathe.

He’d done as he’d promised and kept a smile on his face, even joked as much as he could bear, but now that he was alone, the truth of what Sam had said crept up on him. No, it hit him, like a wave. _Thursday._ No Cas. Again.

He exploded into motion, jumping off the bed, only to halt as his gaze fell on the small brown stain, a ring on the wooden floor. The sight brought words back to him, spoken softly on a snowy afternoon: _All right. I guess I could stay._ And then Dean had thrown him out.

Well, he had good reason, didn’t he? But the next morning, when he didn’t go into the garage, the anger he expected to feel was subdued. He made a phone call, grumbling to himself while he waited for the ringing to stop.

“Lawrence Memorial Hospital, how can I help you?”

“Hi, I was a patient here a few months ago. I want to review the record of my visit again.”

“Certainly. Can I get your name and the date of your visit?”

“Dean Winchester, February tenth.”

A moment passed in which Dean could hear only the distant clicking of fingers on a keyboard. Then the man on the other end said, “A copy of your records will be available for pick-up in forty-eight hours.”

“Is there any way to get it sooner?” Dean asked. “I don’t really need a copy, anyways. Could I just look at the papers for a minute and jot some stuff down?”

“I’m not sure.”

“Can you ask?”

The man gave a faint sigh. “Of course. One moment, sir.” After about a minute, he cleared his throat into the phone. “Mr. Winchester?”

“Yeah?” Dean resisted the urge to cross his fingers.

“With a photo ID and a signature, you can view your records at any time between seven AM and ten PM.”

Dean smiled. “All right, thanks.”

“Will that be all, sir?”

“Yeah.”

“Have a nice day, sir.”

Dean frowned as he hung up. _Not likely._

In half an hour, he arrived at the hospital and spoke to the guy at the desk, who had someone bring him the papers. After showing his driver’s license and signing a form, he sat in the waiting room and started flipping through the records. It wasn’t long before he found what he was looking for: a bill to Mr. Castiel Novak, and right beneath it, a billing address.

Despite his success, Dean felt an unexpected pit in his stomach. He looked away from the page, staring across the lobby without really seeing anything—until someone stepped into his field of vision and waved their hand in front of his eyes. “Well, well. Look who it is.”

Dean blinked and saw a small woman in scrubs, wearing a familiar-looking smirk. Meg, his former nurse.

She grinned at him. “What, did your boyfriend land himself in here now?”

“He’s not—”

“—your boyfriend, I know, I remember. Keep telling yourself that.”

“No,” Dean said, “I mean he really isn’t.”

There must have been something in his expression or tone that gave away his inner turmoil, because Meg sat down in the chair next to him and fixed him with a look that was half-stern, half-disbelieving. “Look, I haven’t seen you in months, and I don’t know you at all, but you look messed up.”

“Thanks,” Dean snorted.

“No, I mean it. The only other time I saw you was just after you’d nearly bled to death, but you look worse now. Tell me what’s going on.”

Maybe it was because he felt alone. Maybe it was because he _wanted_ to be alone. But slowly, for reasons that Dean wasn’t entirely sure of, he told her. All of it, from the bus stop to the hospital room. When he finished, he just kept staring at his hands in the following silence.

“Wait, hold on,” she said after a minute. “There’s one thing I don’t understand. You let him go, you’re so sad—so why are you here with, uh,”—she looked at the papers—“the records of his payments, if you’re done with him forever?”

“I don’t know,” he sighed. “I had an idea, but… nah.”

“That’s it? Nah?” Meg rolled her eyes. “Like I said, I hardly know you, but I talked to your buddy while you were conked out. He’s worth more than _nah_. He cares about you. A lot. I mean, seriously—”

“I know he does; that’s the problem.”

“Oh, god, stop being so dramatic.” Dean turned to look at her full-on, and she smiled impishly. “You’ve got a unicorn out there—you’d better go save him.”

Twenty-five minutes later, Dean took the keys out of the ignition in front of what he thought was the most luxurious apartment building he’d ever seen. He triple-checked the address he’d written down from the papers, but was forced to accept that he’d have to go inside. It made his skin crawl, being around so much wealth. Well, that wasn’t what bothered him—it was mostly the idea that Cas belonged here. He wanted out.

But he had a death wish, so he took the elevator to the penthouse and stepped into the hall when the doors opened, trying to calm down. Now that he’d made it this far, the thought of seeing Cas again made him jumpy.

The man who stood in the doorway when he knocked, however, was not Cas. He bit off the end of a chocolate bar and looked at Dean with something like amusement. “Well?” he asked, after a few moments of silence. “What’s eatin’ ya?”

“I’m looking for, um—”

“Where is the—?”

Dean fell silent as Cas came into view behind the guy. They stared at each other for a second, and then Cas quickly turned around and walked away again.

“Cas!” Dean called, and shoved his way into the apartment to see Cas vanish into another room. He would have followed him, but a hand on his shoulder held him in place.

“Hey, there,” said the man with the chocolate bar. “You might know my brother, but I’ve never seen you before, partner, so why don’t you slow down a sec and introduce yourself? I’m Gabriel Novak.” He stuck out a hand.

Dean shook it, hardly listening. “Dean Winchester.”

Gabriel gave a surprised laugh. “Oh, you’re Dean!”

“What?” He didn’t try to hide the annoyance in his voice.

“Cas told me all about you.” Gabriel raised his eyebrows. “Quite a thing you two had going, if I’m not mistaken.”

“Gabriel,” Cas called from the other room, “I would appreciate it if you stopped.”

Dean, about two inches away from his face, still caught by the shoulder, smiled at Gabriel. “Can I talk to him? Alone?”

Gabriel shrugged. “Be my guest. Or, I should say, my angry trespasser. But yeah, go ahead.”

“Gabriel!”

“Sorry, Cas,” Gabriel called back. “Can’t save you from everything.”

Dean wrenched his shoulder free and entered the room where Cas had disappeared, closing the door behind them. There was a low table made of dark wood in the center of the space with freaking chaise lounges at equal intervals around it, all of which looked more expensive than his entire apartment. Cas stood across the room facing the opposite wall.

“Why are you here?” he asked. His voice was bland, controlled.

“I want to talk to you.” Was that why? Dean wasn’t sure. He hadn’t had a clear idea in his head when he’d left the apartment.

Cas turned around. He wore good clothes, a suit and jacket and a narrow blue tie, the same sort of thing he’d worn when Dean had first met him. The only thing missing was a trench coat. He looked strange in these clothes now, so different from the worn thrift-store purchases he’d worn when he lived with Dean. Strange, and uncomfortable. Cas folded his arms over his chest. “So talk.”

It took Dean aback—the coldness in his eyes. It hurt. He looked around the room at all the decadence. “You know, seeing you here, everything makes sense,” he said. “I mean, you always threw a fit when I bought anything that cost more than it was worth. Guess you really meant it when you wanted to get away from your family. Does make me wonder why you went right back to ‘em, though.”

Cas shrugged. “I wouldn’t have, but I had to contact Gabriel to access my bank account when you were in the hospital. He’s always been the most… sympathetic. And then he wanted to know why I needed the money. I owed him an explanation, both for that and my disappearance last year, but I don’t intend to stay here for long.”

His voice stayed measured and calm throughout. It made Dean angry. He snorted. “I bet not. Probably gets a little crowded with so many dicks in one place, huh? Not enough room for you to be an ass.”

That got a reaction: Cas’s eyes flashed. “Did you come here only to insult me, Dean? If you did, you should leave.”

“I’m not going anywhere.” Neither was the conversation, he thought, feeling like his chances of accomplishing anything were rapidly fading. He wrestled his frustration back, or tried to. “I… I do want to talk. I want to know why you did it, why you lied to me.”

Cas’s forehead wrinkled as he frowned. “I already told you.”

“No, you told me why you ran out on your family picnic. I want to know why you didn’t tell me the truth about it.”

Cas sat on one of the lounges, fidgeting until Dean sat as well. Finally, he said, “It’s difficult to explain.”

“Well, it’s a hell of a lot harder trying to figure it out on my own.”

“I mean, it’s difficult to explain without sounding sentimental.”

“You _are_ sentimental. It’s half of your personality, dude.”

Cas sighed. “Very well.” It still took him a moment to get started. At length, he said, “When you came up to me at the bus stop and invited me to lunch, much of my anger at my family had faded. At least, it wasn’t on my mind constantly. I’d already been… on my own… for several weeks. And after you started giving me money, I could afford food and socks.”

“Socks?”

“They’re surprisingly essential. In any case, I was grateful—in my family, kindness at a personal cost is rare, to say the least. And as I got to know you better…”

“What?” Dean asked, when Cas stayed quiet for several moments.

He chewed on his bottom lip. “I never intended to even speak to you, or anyone, really. I hadn’t thought that far ahead. So I was unprepared to lie, but even more unprepared to tell the truth. And as we talked more, I began to value our friendship more than I thought possible.” He laughed quietly. “I was already in love with you, you know.”

Dean leaned back, feeling like hitting something. He settled for letting venom seep into his voice as he said, “No, I didn’t know.”

With a small nod, Cas continued talking, addressing the floor between his feet. “I was. At first it was easy to tell myself that you would lose interest and I would never need to tell you who I really was. Then, when you didn’t leave, I was afraid that you would want nothing to do with me if I revealed that I’d been keeping a secret for so long.” He looked up at Dean, blue eyes pleading. “I was afraid. I didn’t want to drive you away.”

“Nice work on that one.”

“I know.” Cas looked away. “And you were so kind to me, even when you had no reason to be. I thought maybe I would never need to tell you. We were making something together that wasn’t about the past… Clearly, I was wrong.” His voice had acquired a bitter edge.

“But Cas, you _can’t_ build anything when you keep secrets like that!” Dean’s sudden, crashing anger propelled him to his feet.

Cas rose as well, looking both furious and pained at the same time. “I know!” he yelled, and the sound filled up the room. “You think I don’t? I was wrong about it all, I know! And I’m so sorry for fucking it up the way I have! I’m sorry, okay?”

“That’s not good enough!” The shout came out half-strangled as Dean turned away, shoving his way through the room, nearly slamming into a wall with his blurred vision. Somehow he made it out of the apartment, where he punched the elevator button as quickly as he could. After a minute, a soft chime sounded and the doors opened.

He stepped inside and closed his eyes under the crushing weight of the prospect of going home alone, staying there, losing this chance—

The elevator doors slid back when Dean shoved his arm into the closing gap. Then he was in the hall again, the only sound his hitched breathing as he fought for control of his pulse. When he thought he could speak normally again, he stepped forward and knocked on the door. There was no response. He knocked again. Without waiting, he started to speak, and with each word a boulder seemed to lift off of his back.

“Cas… If you’re listening in there… You’re an idiot. Seriously. But that’s not where I’m going with this, I swear! I just… yeah, okay, you’re an idiot. But I don’t care. This whole time I’ve been thinking about how angry I am, and not without good reason, but—I’m tired of it. You’ve said it a billion times—that you were just doing what you thought was right. And if the road to hell is paved with good intentions, then I guess we’re both gonna be damned, because I don’t want you to leave. I don’t.

“I gave Sammy one good thing and then I took it away. And he…” Dean trailed off, rubbing his face with his hands. He was too tired to lie. “Well, both of us... mostly me… I miss you. When you’re not there, something’s missing, and the apartment doesn’t smell like coffee in the morning, and my bed is too big, and… and I eat lunch alone. But that’s my fault. And I want you there no matter what you’ve done—because we’re family, Cas. I need you.” He blinked hard, even though there was no one who could see him. “I know I said we couldn’t fix this, but I want to try.” His voice broke.

Before he could continue, not that he knew what to say, the door flew open and Cas burst out like water from a dam, throwing his arms around Dean to bring them closer together. Despite the momentum, his lips were soft, hesitant. Dean closed his eyes, awash in relief, and found that the kiss tasted like regret and gratitude mixed into one. It was more blissful than he had ever imagined, and almost more than he could stand. The wave of emotion was so strong that he was knocked off-balance, and he stepped on Cas’s foot. “Sorry,” he whispered.

He felt Cas smile. “Together we make a pretty sorry pair.”

“As long as we _are_ together.”

“Of course.” Cas kissed him again, tenderly. “I need you, too.” Then he laughed and broke away.

“What?”

“Well, Dean,” he said, still chuckling, “you say you hate chick-flicks, but I think that was a beautiful speech.”


	7. Epilogue

The last night of August was the hottest yet, and even though the vents were blowing cold air around the clock, it wasn’t enough. High humidity levels made things worse, to the point where the walls were slightly sticky.

Sometime after midnight, Dean woke. He looked around to find out why, but after a few seconds, he realized it was just the heat. There was a thin sheen of sweat over his body, although there were no covers on the bed. Even his light shirt seemed too thick. He pulled it off as he sat up and got to his feet. The air in the apartment felt soupy, too moist to be properly breathable.

He crossed to the window and opened it. Far below, cars drove by, headlights cutting through the darkness. Dean smiled. He liked the view, even if it came with a crappy apartment. He hadn’t been opposed to Cas’s suggestion of using his money to help them out of their dump, but the new head of the company, Cas’s brother Michael, who had taken over management of all funds, wasn’t at all agreeable, and didn’t seem to have known about the assistance Gabriel had given them. It didn’t help that Cas’s flight nearly a year ago had resulted in turmoil for his family, either. None of them were feeling particularly generous anymore.

So they kept the apartment, the three of them, and Dean told himself it was better that not everything got handed to them on a silver platter. He mostly believed it. At least Cas could get his job at the Roadhouse back without a hitch and the physical therapy was paid for already.

Arms around his waist lifted him out of his thoughts. Cas rested his chin on Dean’s bare shoulder. “Hey.”

“Hey.” Dean shivered slightly despite the heat, feeling the length of Cas’s body pressed against his.

After a few moments, Cas asked, “How are you doing? It’s pretty late.”

Dean smiled. “I’m fine. Just thinking.”

“About what?”

“How good things are here.”

“But, Dean,” Cas said seriously, “we don’t have enough food for the rest of the week, and Sam’s tuition has gone up, and—”

Dean turned away from the window. “Calm down.” He cupped Cas’s face in his hands as blue eyes met green. “Maybe it’s not perfect yet,” he said, “but we’re on our way.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you enjoyed this (and especially if you didn't), please leave a comment!


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